


The Interstellar Medium

by Thornvale



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Allusions to intimacy, Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Child Death, Comedy, Cussing, Fallen Angels, Fallen!Aziraphale, Friendship, Gabriel being a bastard, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Romance, Slow Burn, Supportive Crowley (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, some torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-07-08 06:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 87,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19865083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornvale/pseuds/Thornvale
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are caught in the crossfire of a new kind of cosmic war: a business restructure that threatens the lives of millions of angels and demons alike, and after an angelic Throne is mysteriously banished from God’s own court, the duo are forced to protect it from the forces of good and evil that would use it for their own gain.Pulled together again in the wake of new dangers, they will learn that defiance comes at a bigger cost than they ever imagined.





	1. Life Insurance

The world was a place full of problems.

Relative to mankind, some were small and inconsequential. Not necessarily small in size, so to speak (although indeed, sometimes they could be), but just trifling enough that the likes of you and me might just think nothing of them, or much worse, simply ignore them.

Other problems were extraordinary in their need for corrective haste. Overwhelming and immediate, devastating in their consequences. Problems large enough, in fact, that the likes of you and me might just think nothing of them, or much worse, simply ignore them. 

There were two Problems in particular worth mentioning, one of each ilk. The first, Problem One, was grand in size and malignant possibilities. It existed within a world or realm unseen to the living and the Unholy. This was a thing created by intelligent, vengeful hands under the guise of building a solution to another of its kind: Problem Two. 

Problem Two was small in size, though was a notable example of how ignoring an issue might eventually lead it to become the second kind of problem. This small-in-stature malevolence was safely tucked away in a bookshop where nobody suspected a thing. It was a bookshop in Soho, London, a space that was somehow chaotic and organised in one fell swoop; a perfect place to hide, (largely) unbeknownst to the shop’s long-lived owner and his frequent guest. For a little while, anyway.

Problem One and Problem Two considered the angel and demon pair a problem in of themselves, and soon enough, the feeling would be quite mutual, as per the natural evolution of threats and reality itself, something which even celestial entities were slaves to in the end. 

After all, it would be foolish to believe that any period of peace could last forever, as much as one might have wanted to. 

* * *

Principality Aziraphale, Angel of the Flaming Sword, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, sat in companionable silence within his Soho shop, a flute of Dom Pérignon in one hand and a signed copy of _Troilus and Criseyde_ in the other. He owned the sort of name that would sound extraordinary hailed by the angelic choirs of cathedrals across the globe, though in truth, his Official titles preceded him; he was by no means a grand kind of angel, and his name would never be hailed by anyone. He had been a mere step above the bottom rung of Celestial Society when _it_ happened, and now he could only be further from Heaven’s graces if he had Fallen.

Aziraphale was content. If he didn’t think too hard.

Demon Crowley, no Official titles to his name aside from the odd Serpent thing and what he concocted for himself in the occasional fantastical thought, lounged nearby in a dusty armchair not doing anything in particular, merely stroking his pointed chin and watching Aziraphale through the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He, too, was about as far from his native abode as a demon could be, and there was a time in recent history where he desired to go much, much further to maybe find a nice little planet orbiting an ancient star system and, for lack of a better word, retire. However, he had since come to the conclusion that maybe the Earth was not so bad, after all. 

Crowley was also content. Though not really.

That was when Problem Two came into the picture.

Crowley thought he heard the soft jingle of a tiny bell from upstairs. Disturbed from his reverie, he briefly glanced between the door that led to the stairs and Aziraphale, though the other made no reasonable movement in response to a sound that probably should not have sounded at all. Instead, _Troilus and Criseyde_ was very carefully lowered down to the desk so that an old, leathery page could be painstakingly turned.

About to stand up and investigate (after all, he was well within his rights to be suspicious of just about anything, at present), he found that there was no need. There came a solid but soft thumping down the crickety wooden staircase, and then the door was opened mysteriously from the other side … by a little fuzzy white paw.

“What,” Crowley began, as a large and extremely fluffy white cat in a pink collar sauntered into the shop floor, “is _that?”_

The creature was, by and large, about as suspicious as a grown cat could be at all, which was to say: _fairly_. More suspicious, or at the very least confusing, was the way it sat down on its impossibly fluffy rump and stared at the demon with big, golden eyes. It continued staring at him, even as it began to lick innocently at its own paw. Such a gesture might have been perceived as a threat - nay, a _dare_ , and then Crowley remembered that it was just a cat, and that any perceived goading was entirely fictional. 

Aziraphale glanced up from his book and made a sudden sound of delight, excitedly abandoning his champagne and making his way towards the cat, which leaned away from him in apparent aversion. 

“Oh, yes! I completely forgot! How scatterbrained I can be. Crowley, this is Oscar! Isn’t she absolutely gorgeous?” Aziraphale cooed, bending down and very cautiously attempting to pet Oscar on the head, only laughing with affection (and nervousness) when he was met with a few hard swipes in return. 

“You got a cat?” Crowley pushed, observing the scene over the top rim of his sunglasses. 

“Yes, well … I didn’t get her in so much as she just kind of wandered in a few days ago and doesn’t seem to want to leave. I put up posters around the area -“

“You know how to use a printer?”

Aziraphale shifted a little, twisting the gold ring on his little finger this way and that. 

“Well, I …. Well, no, actually, I just sort of … drew her and then used my finest calligraphy to detail just where she might be found.”

“Oh, I see,” Crowley replied, nodding in mock satisfaction. “I know for a fact that your calligraphy is impossible to read and I will also make a fairly educated guess that your instructions are about as easy to make sense of as your opening times. Is that right?”

“I don’t think I entirely know what you’re implying. All the more, Crowley, she could have been lost or even abandoned and I have done absolutely nothing, um, morally ambiguous in not encouraging her to leave.”

The demon slowly stood and made his way to the desk where various books lay open and strewn about. Shifting a particular hefty copy of _Something Wicked This Way Comes,_ he discovered one of these hastily made posters which featured a cat that had been drawn more to resemble the odd beasts medieval mankind considered felines on their tapestries of Olde. Underneath, the passage read thus:

_A catte of a cloudly exterior was dyscovered this daye of Tues within a particular book shoppe of note. Of lengthe it is perhaps a foote, perhaps two, or hence a measuremente betweeneth the two, maybe or maybe notte including the candyflosse white taile. The catte, which coulde be a dogge undercover, does notte answer to any of thy typicalle catte naymes, including Snowballe, Tigger, Felix, nor even Shadowe. Any enquiries, aske at the aforementioned shoppe._

Raising his eyebrows, Crowley took off his sunglasses and looked at Aziraphale, who mysteriously appeared somewhat uncomfortable.

“Why’s it written in Middle English, then?” Crowley asked, and then his gaze skirted over the open pages of _Troilus and Criseyde_. “Ah! I see Chaucer’s been helping you find Oscar’s home. Did you forget what century it is? Nobody is going to find their cat if it’s written like this, you know.”

“Don’t poke fun,” Aziraphale reprimanded guiltily. “Sometimes, I do just find myself drawn into those worlds.” Scratching idly at his blonde curls, he stared at his friend a moment longer before relenting dramatically with a sigh. “All right, Crowley, I will find Oscar’s home, even if it takes a thousand years, which is probably how long it will take to figure out a computer.”

“Well, I can help you there,” Crowley offered with a casual air, his lips turned upwards in a somewhat fond half-smile. “Cats don’t tend to live for a thousand years, so we’d best get a shifty on, eh?”

The angel pouted slightly in response and bent to pick up Oscar, who had been silently tolerating the presence of the two men about as easily as a feline might appreciate the company of a particularly yappy dog. She seemed shocked to suddenly be within Aziraphale’s arms and allowed him a moment of false hope before she aggressively stretched her back legs to push his arm as far away from her as possible, clawing at his sleeve. With another sigh, Aziraphale put her back down and turned his attentions back to his friend. 

“I suppose you are less inclined for mischief now, hm?” He asked with a slight twitch of his eyebrows. 

“Well, that, and also ‘cause I know you couldn’t live with the thought of some kid missing their favourite pet, Shnookums or whatever cursed thing they’ve named it, and I can’t go around causing trouble if you’re too upset to thwart it, so …”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale sniffed. “Well, what are you up to today, then?”

Crowley thought for a moment.

“Fancy the zoo?”

The bright smile he received in response solidified the day’s plans.

It happened the same way every morning. Since the Anticlimactic Apocalypse, that is. For various reasons, the pair had found themselves in a position where it seemed more beneficial to them both to wade through the mire of uncertainty together. There was no telling what laid beyond every corner - sometimes a figure all in black, peering over the top of a newspaper in their direction, sometimes a figure in a pastel suit with a permanent expression of distaste. Sometimes, apparently, it was a cat with a pink collar, which took to brushing up against Crowley’s legs while his friend was off getting ready for the day.

Leaning down, he picked up the creature and held it level to his face, peering into those big, golden eyes. It did not seem to mind his proximity as much as it had minded Aziraphale’s.

“Oscar, was it?” Crowley asked the cat gruffly. “You’d better start being nice to him, or you’re going from Persian to Sphinx with a pair of blunt scissors, my friend.”

It wasn’t as easy to rattle a cat as it was a plant.

Once the cat was safely locked away back in the bookshop, Crowley led the way out into the hot Summer day. The blistering heat currently baking London did not bother him as much as it seemed to bother everybody else, particularly, though he had long since learnt from the natives to complain about it at every ample opportunity if only for the purposes of not drawing suspicion. 

“Bloody hot, innit?” he announced, opening the passenger side door for Aziraphale before making his way around to the driver’s seat. By the grace of a miracle, entering the car was like sliding into the contained chill of an Autumn day, his hair even shifting a little in a cool breeze that certainly did not persist on the outside. With a small nod of acknowledgement towards his friend, who was fanning away the light sheen of perspiration on his face, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a brand spanking new Samsung Galaxy.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Aziraphale stop fanning himself with the crossword magazine that had somehow found its way into the dashboard storage.

“ _What_ is _that?_ ” They both said in unison, Aziraphale out of shock and Crowley rather terribly imitating said shock. 

“Don’t make fun!” They both said in unison again. 

“It’s a mobile phone, angel. Obviously,” Crowley explained, reaching around towards the backseat. 

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been drawn into all -“

“Look, I picked you up a white one, see? I even set it up and everything!” Tossing a white box into his friend’s lap, he watched him expectantly. “I know that your limit technology wise doesn’t surpass 1950-whatever, but I can’t rely on you being in your bookshop when I need to get hold of you, right, so you’re gonna have to suck it up, I’m afraid. Just don’t forget to charge it. It’s like taking care of, uh … of an animal,” Crowley suggested with a casual air, trying to lessen the impact of the information. “Only you can talk to me with it and do all kinds of other useful stuff. See?”

Turning on his phone’s front camera, he leaned towards Aziraphale and held it up, smiling a beatific and toothy smile while the angel appeared intense and perplexed beside him. Aziraphale jumped slightly at the resultant _snap_ of the picture being taken. 

“Look, look at this, I can make it my wallpaper - like a background - like this -“

“I have _never_ seen you smile like that,” Aziraphale managed, an expression of concern overriding his previous confusion. “ _Ever_. Look, why would you - no, no, absolutely not, you _must_ take it again! I look terrible, and I’m not even looking at you - Crowley!! Stop it at once,” he insisted upon finding the camera now thrust towards his face, and he laughed awkwardly. “Oh, all right, fine! So long as it’s both of us looking like utter fools.”

The resultant photo was anything but foolish. With an approving nod, Crowley decided to save it and reached for the wire dangling from the recently miraculously modified dashboard, plugging it in. Pursing his lips with momentary concentration, he found the new playlist that he liked and started it up, interrupting Aziraphale’s poking and prodding of his own phone. 

“It plays music, too? Without a rec- CD?”

“Yup,” Crowley answered proudly. “Got nearly the whole of Earth’s discography right here at our fingertips. What do you fancy, angel?”

There was a brief pause as Crowley started up the car and set them on their way to a catchy pop-rock tune that befitted the bright, sunny day. 

“Oh, well, I think that this will do quite nicely,” Aziraphale responded contentedly. “Sometimes, you really can be quite k-“

“Say it and I’ll drive us into the next building, inevitably discorporating us both.”

“Well,” the angel huffed lightly, “I think you know that will lead to something of an awkward conversation for both of us and our respective peers.”

* * *

Much to the dismay of the zookeepers, the animals decided that they would behave particularly oddly that day. The people, in their ignorance, put it down to utter vexation towards the unnatural heat blazing down upon wet, mild London, perhaps forgetting that many of the creatures present would call such tropical conditions home. The truth was that animals had more eyes to see than most humans did, and could sense that an angel and demon were strolling past their enclosures, though they could not fully understand just what an angel and a demon were. They only understood how it made them feel, and that was, for lack of a better term, _strange_. 

Said angel and demon made their way towards one enclosure in particular, one holding a steadily dripping ice cream and the other a red ice lolly that was drooping in the heat. The two of them had abandoned their respective jackets in the car, and Aziraphale had even rolled up the usually neatly pressed sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. He was starting to get to grips with the camera on his brand new phone and was taking pictures of anything of interest - which in London Zoo was literally everything. 

“Angel, that phone, like most things, has a limited capacity, you might find,” Crowley informed him, “though I’m impressed that you’re so open to it.”

“Well, I’m still not sure that I understand entirely,” his friend admitted, sucking the melted remnants of his ice lolly from its wooden stick and dropping it into a bin as they passed. “I suppose humans are so, what’s the word … _trapped_ by the knowledge of their own mortality that it seems important to capture every passing moment to immortalise it in some way.”

“Looks like you’ve taken that idea and run with it.”

The pair entered a forested enclosure with a short walk-way. Inside, the animals within were hollering deafeningly, screaming at the tops of their little lungs. Their keeper was peering up into the trees, scratching her head, apparently at a loss for just what had gotten into the troupe of monkeys bounding spiritedly through the branches. 

“Looks like they’ve got the devil in them today,” Crowley called to her from the other side of the walk-way fence, and then he waved at her when she turned to shoot him an entirely unimpressed look. 

The monkeys, specifically black-capped squirrel monkeys, certainly seemed excitable, especially now that the causes of their excitement were stood inside the make-shift rainforest. It wasn’t often that celestial entities stopped by to say hello, or even stopped by to do anything in particular. 

“Did you do something, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked pointedly. Crowley seemed wounded by the accusation. 

“Wasn’t me,” he insisted. “I’d have found it funnier if it was.”

They moved on a little way, deeper into the rainforest. Monkeys weren’t the only denizens of this particular enclosure; there was the occasional sloth hanging up in the trees, too. Crowley smirked up at their fuzzy backs. He liked sloths, he found them quite amusing for some reason, though the continuous screeching of the monkeys served to distract him somewhat. Aziraphale seemed similarly affected, and the demon caught his friend glancing at him every now and again. It usually meant that there were words to be spoken but it didn’t quite seem the right time to do it. 

“What?” Crowley insisted. “I can shut them up if you want, but it wasn’t me -“

“No,” Aziraphale answered, startled. “No, no, it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I was just … Why did you get me the mobile phone, exactly? So that you can get hold of me? Preserve some memories in digital form?” The angel stopped suddenly, his eyes widening a little in apparent dismay, though he seemed to try and collect himself as quickly as he could. “Oh, I see. Are you … going somewhere, then?” Aziraphale attempted a botched smile. “How lovely. Some sort of holiday? Of the beach kind or the more, um … celestial kind?”

Crowley’s eyebrows almost met his hairline. He turned, peering at his friend over his sunglasses.

“Why? What’re you scared of?”

The monkeys insisted on howling even louder than before. Their hoots and hollers seemed to be getting closer. 

“I’m not _scared_ , Crowley. I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

The statement hung for a moment. 

“You are scared,” the demon pointed out brazenly. “What you’re scared of is the reason I got you the phone. You don’t have to rely on that old, dodgy little telephone anymore, do you?”

“You seem to be worryingly sure that something is going to happen!”

Crowley stared hard at the earthy ground, counting all of the twigs and dead leaves and bugs crawling happily about the soil. Over their heads, the shrieking of the monkeys mysteriously ceased, much to his relief. The demon rubbed at the inside of his ear as he chanced a glance up, and he found Aziraphale with his eyes closed in concentration. 

It wasn’t only the monkeys that felt the pulse of Serenity from below. The zookeeper nearby felt a sudden shift in her mood, and resumed her day whistling an inane little tune, walking off to prepare the monkeys’ food. The bats felt it, the bugs in the mud, and the sloths felt it enough that one of them relaxed so much it simply dropped from the branch it had been hanging onto (by some miracle, it landed safely onto a bed of leaves that certainly had not been there moments ago). 

Crowley felt it, too, though was less able to be affected by it than God’s mere beasts. It simply felt like a warmth brushing at his skin and seeking entry, one significantly more pleasant than the sunlight streaming mercilessly down from above. 

“Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just …”

“Insurance?” Aziraphale offered morosely, opening his eyes. 

“Right. Uh, speaking of which …”

If there was anything Crowley could sense, it would probably be disappointment. 

The calmed black-capped squirrel monkeys quietly made their way down the tree trunks nearby and ambled lithely up to the pair. A few of them sat around Crowley’s ankles and stared up at him with prehistoric curiosity, scratching at their little pink chins. The others, greater in number, flocked to Aziraphale and began to climb upon his person, much to his evident dismay, though the angel simply refused to move as about ten of the monkeys decided he would be a good place to sit and relax. Two of them groomed at his pale hair, another pulled at his ear as if to see if it would pry off, and if not for the prior conversation, Crowley would have been creased up with laughter.

The demon fought not to smirk, trying to stay on the topic at hand. 

“You want holy water,” Aziraphale said, his voice steadily increasing in pitch as tiny monkey feet pulled and grabbed at his clothes. “Is that what this is all about?”

“You know that we’re being watched, so it’s hardly a bad idea, is it? I can splash some demons with holy water, and you can get a hold of me more easily so I can come and … and blast some angels with hellfire, or something. I can help you like you’re helping me, ‘cause that holy water, it really did save my life that time, you know.”

Aziraphale sighed, and the monkey hugging his neck sighed, too.

“All right, Crowley, I’ll do what I can. Just … be careful with it, or I shan’t forgive you.”

Surprised by the outcome, the demon’s snake-like eyes lit up somewhat, and he smiled at his friend in gratitude. 

“Oh. Thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it. Really. I can hardly bear the thought of you carrying something like that around.”

“No, I know.” Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Crowley snapped a picture of the poor, disgruntled angel before him covered head to toe in curious mammals. “D’you think they’re attracted to your holiness or something? Maybe there’s some ancestral memory of you in the Garden of Eden?”

“Whatever it is, it’s beside the point,” Aziraphale insisted grumpily, moving to stand next to a tree in the vain hope that the monkeys might abandon him for it. “I’d rather like to go home now. It’s too hot.”

Crowley pouted in an attempt to conceal any trace of guilt that might have made itself manifest on his exterior. 

“You know I’m not about sizzling myself out of existence with your holy juice, right?”

With a snap of his fingers, he miracled other Ideas into the minds of the monkeys, and just like that, they all clambered down from their angelic perch and scuttled away to do whatever it was that monkeys did to occupy their time. Aziraphale brushed himself down somewhat sheepishly.

“I know. I trust you, Crowley. I just need some time to make you water of the sort of potency that might destroy such a thing as a demon lord. Not that … not that it’s going to come to that.”

“It’s not,” Crowley agreed. 

The trip back to the car was quiet. 

* * *

Every part of the country had its own unique brand of weird. Weird persisted, in some form, within the very earth, the rains that fell upon the land. Some places, however, were weirder than others; perhaps it was a certain disposition of its people, the things they said and how they said them, or perhaps it was the way the landscape never looked the same for any two days, trees and rocks moving about of their own accord when no eyes were set upon them. Sometimes it was the mysterious and undocumented creatures that popped up uninvited. 

Sometimes, it was all of those things at once. 

Somewhere along the south coast of England was an island. There were many islands along the coast, but this was the one known as _the_ Island. It was fairly small, dotted with higgledy-piggledy villages with their higgledy-piggledy houses, with the occasional crumbling castle overlooking the English Channel. Shadows haunted every nook, every bunny-hole of the island, and that was the way the locals liked it. 

Some of them had never even left. They had everything they needed there on that small spit of limestone, and anyone in a vague direction northwards was considered too far away and not worth knowing. 

On the bill of this island sat a lonely lighthouse. It was tall and white with a red stripe painted across its girth. This lighthouse, lonely as it was out there among flattened green fields and rugged cliff-faces, was very important.

In the depths of night, a man sat in his car in the car park nearby. The lighthouse was some distance away, but the blue-ish white beam of light stretching out across the eternally tumultuous waters was as bright as the moon itself. Beside him, a little girl of about seven yawned and rested her head on her elbow, blearily following the rapturous gaze of her father towards the point of the island.

“What’s it for?” She asked, indulging her father in his late night trip to bring her to see the lighthouse in all its glory. She already knew what it was for, of course.

“That, my girl, is the beating heart of this place. It’s light cuts clean through the darkness, doesn’t it? You see, out there ‘neath the waves is a danger that has taken the lives of many good men. It’s called the Shambles. You can’t see it, but as soon as the tide drops … boom! Shipwrecked and drowned. The sea is a deceptive and cruel mistress.”

“Why’s the sea a lady?” The girl asked. Her father blanked and cleared his throat.

“The sea is deceptive and cruel. Look at how the waves climb the cliffs without end, crashing into each other. It’s because there are opposing tides out there, one’s going one way and the other’s going … the other. It’s like an eternal battle the sea fights with itself. Can you hear it?”

The girl couldn’t hear it, but she had heard it some of the other times her father had brought her to the Bill to tell her the very same story. She nodded reactively, watching a herring gull strut past her window.

“While there’s people on this planet, that lighthouse can never go out at night. Its light protects all the brave souls out there driving Her Majesty’s ships. Aye, and what a beautiful sight it is,” the man sighed. “Well, best get you to back bed so you’re not missing school tomorrow, eh?”

“Can we go to the pirate graveyard after school tomorrow?” His daughter asked, perking up a great deal. “Find a pirate ghost?”

“Yeah, yeah, we can find a pirate ghost. And we’ll run him through with his own decapitated leg, _arrrr!_ ”

Out there on the Bill, the lighthouse shone and shone and shone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Bumpy Ride by The Hoosiers.


	2. Exceedingly Desperate Measures

So, if Problem Two was a white Persian cat by the name of Oscar that was currently residing in a cluttered bookshop in Soho, then Problem One, currently the more demanding issue of the two, was in Heaven, though it might be important to acknowledge just how this particular Problem came into being. 

Let us first address the hierarchical structure of Heaven, or more specifically, what was known in-house as the Third Sphere. 

There were four kinds of angels that occupied this Sphere. At the bottom rung, and by far the most common, were simple, bog-standard angels. They had no kind of prestigious title, and what kind of power they had, whether magical or otherwise, was insignificant. They were perhaps the equivalent to errand boys. They delivered messages between Heaven’s various departments, they answered to any being higher in the Celestial Order than them, and the best of them were sometimes issued to humans in need as temporary Guardians. Sometimes, they made coffee or tea. Their most common and most affiliated task, however, was processing paperwork, and for Heaven to achieve its quota in this regard, the numbers of these angels were in their millions. 

Their stalls lined several thousand floors. These angels, that had once upon a time fought in grand cosmic battles and relayed messages of Significance to mankind, worked quickly and silently, typing and stamping and sealing envelopes with dead-eyed stares more suited to the Undead. 

The next rank were the archangels (not to be confused with the capitalised and far more prestigious Archangels, though this confusion was, naturally, quite common). One could think of them as supervisors, their number somewhere in the thousands.

Next in the hierarchy were the Principalities, of which there were one-hundred and ninety-five, one for each nation of Earth in theory but not necessarily in practise. Inspiring and guiding humanity was their designation, though the majority of them conducted their business from Upstairs, these days, occasionally dropping in to their territory for a bit of field work every couple of hundred years or so. Their offices were somewhat swankier than those of the peon angels below, and they were generally divided by continent. Every office of theirs was equipped with a wide-screen TV which was meant to be tuned in to the news channel at all times, though it wasn’t uncommon to find them observing reruns of _Friends_ , instead. Humanity based research, they called it. 

Then there were the Archangels. Their job was the smooth running of the Third Sphere, which itself was the one Sphere specifically tasked with the protection and guidance of Earth, both its living and its deceased. There were seven of these Archangels: Gabriel was the leader, and Uriel, Michael, and Sandalphon were his immediate subordinates. Sariel was the Warmaster, Raguel was the Observer of Justice, and as for Ramiel - well, she was the unlucky one stuck with guiding the souls of the dead after Death handed them over.

A year and a half after the utter embarrassment that was the failed Apocalypse, the seven Archangels were gathered in a meeting room on the very top floor. Most of them were seated around a shiny, white table, anxiously twiddling their thumbs. Gabriel was stood by the empty water cooler, clenching a flimsy cup between his fingers.

All of them stared at the fax machine sat on its own little table against the panoramic windows.

After hundreds of years, the fax machine had turned itself on again. That only meant one thing: a message was coming, and it probably would not be Good tidings from the Second or even the First Sphere. The tension within the room was palpable, for the Archangels felt they all had a heavy burden to bear in their work but had all done their very best, in their own esteemed opinions. Yes, the fated war between Heaven and Hell had not come to pass, but what could they have done about that? It wasn’t _their_ fault the Antichrist had found a conscience. Was it?

When the fax machine began to hum, the Archangels stood up and moved towards it, standing in an arc around the table. 

“Gabriel,” Michael breathed, her sharp eyes fixed on the edges of the paper slowly pushing its way out of the machine. “Several hundred years of hearing nothing from the other side … well, it can only be a commendation for all the hard work we’ve put in for the last six millennia.”

“We did nothing wrong,” Gabriel said quickly, smiling. He folded his arms across his chest. “So, yeah, it can only be that. I - we deserve it! For all the guiding and the - the thwarting, the thwarting we have tirelessly achieved.”

“Yeah, no doubt. I doubled the efficiency of the lesser angels last year by giving them more to do and less time to do it,” Sandalphon announced, hungrily watching the Blessed Fax slowly emerge.

“I saved four politicians from corruption last month,” Uriel offered flatly. “Their families were getting in the way.”

“ _I_ made sure every single damned angel down there was armed in case of war!” Sariel barked, his mutton chops quivering. “An angel without a gun is no angel at all!”

“I introduced execution in two countries last week,” said Raguel hopefully. “You know, like the good old days.”

Ramiel, who seemed half dead herself, perked up a little bit. “Uh, the queue outside the Pearly Gates is an even six miles long, down from seven and a half.”

“Good work, everyone,” Gabriel commended. “Let’s see what the big shots have to say about all that.”

The fax machine stopped whirring, and there the sheet of paper sat. The Archangels leaned in and squinted to try and see just what - nay, _where_ the message from Above was. They eventually located it at the very top of the page in small print, probably a font size of about eight at most. It was a single word, and didn’t even feature any punctuation. 

The Blessed Fax stated:

RESTRUCTURE

Gabriel tried to hide his disappointment. From what he could see, there was no form of commendation or even compliment to be found there in that vague and non-descript little Message. He even might have been a little _angry_ about it, honestly speaking; it was even worse than when the telephone had been mysteriously replaced by the wretched fax machine. Biting his lower lip between his teeth for several long, painful seconds, he managed to swallow back whatever series of swear words were about to obliterate the Holy sanctity of his body and raise his eyebrows, instead. 

“Well,” he managed, loosely shrugging and turning to face the others with a strenuous smile. “Centuries of silence and now we have the message from on high. Restructure! How …” he struggled to find a word, shrugging another two times to fill the silence. “Well, it won’t fill a Bible this time around. Ha!”

“What does it, um,” Archangel Michael began, clearly unsure whether she was supposed to be pleased or disappointed with the simply worded Message. “Well, what is it supposed to mean, exactly? What do we do?”

“Rebuild Heaven!” Sariel suggested crassly, turning his pale blue eyes towards the clouds and the distorted semblance of cities outside of the windows. “Knock it all down, start again! This place has always been too shiny for my liking.”

“No, idiot,” Sandalphon growled past his golden teeth. “Restructure is business practice. We seven are finally getting _promoted._ ”

This caused something of a spike in excitement and the group tittered briefly in wonder, though Gabriel did not seem convinced. Running his thumb thoughtfully over his lower lip, he then shook his head with a pained kind of acceptance in his violet eyes. He thought of another swear word, but _only_ thought it. If he was pushed much further, he would be no doubt forced to _say_ it.

“It is business practice, but none of us are getting promoted. Not _yet_ , at least,” he added carefully upon witnessing a flurry of disappointment. “Let’s put it this way: the humans have become so … hm, self-sufficient over the last couple of centuries, right? Have you all heard the expression ‘too many cooks spoil the broth’? Follow me, now - if Heaven has to undergo a restructure, it means we have to cut the amount of occupied positions to keep the talent and dispose of the worthless half-wit do-nothings using up resources.”

The Archangels considered this idea in astute silence. Not one of them wanted to be the first to agree. None of them certainly wanted to be the one to point out that technically, the only resource Heaven even had _was_ angels.

“For example,” Gabriel continued slowly, starting to pace, “maybe we don’t need Guardian Angels anymore, let’s say. Maybe we only need two-million angels as opposed to six-million. Maybe we only need seven Principalities, one for each continent. A restructure is really just a fancy term for mass redundancy.”

The others were stunned, initially. Even Sandalphon, who was not known to have a sympathetic bone in his body, for once could not seem to think of anything to say in response to Gabriel’s bold idea. However, all of them knew that to be a boss was to conduct business and sometimes that meant having to do bad things for the greater good, and in that way bad things could sometimes be good, so were they really even bad at all? And if Upper Management wanted the restructure suggested on the fax, then was there really any choice in the matter?

They quickly came to terms with it, for the most part.

“What about us?” Uriel asked firmly. “Will there still be positions for all of us?”

Gabriel snorted and turned to face them all. “Of course! We’re the only angels in this forsaken place actually doing anything! Can you even imagine what Heaven would be like if _we_ weren’t here keeping it going? We’re the heart and soul of this entire operation, and really, it would just be really embarrassing if one of us were to just … you know. The point is that the angels learn how to work harder. Work better. We make an example of the ones who just don’t cut it. We’ll, uh …” Pausing, the Archangel snapped his fingers in thought. “I doubt Hell is willing to share all the Hellfire that we would need. Shoot. We’ll need to think of another way to dispose of the baggage.”

Another stunned silence. The Archangels looked at each other nervously. They did not like being nervous, not one bit, because grand, powerful entities such as themselves were not supposed to be that. Nervous Archangels did not get promoted to the Second Sphere, that was for certain. 

“You’re talking about killing them,” Raguel croaked, anxiously twisting his hands about the body of his golden stave. “Perhaps the War didn’t happen because the Almighty did not want another massacre, Gabriel. People are _whatever_ , but angels?”

“See, no, now now, Raguel,” Gabriel responded quickly, wagging his finger towards the Observer of Justice with a condescending air. “We don’t put words into Her mouth, now, do we? We just … we interpret these … what _could_ be called Messages.” He was near enough talking through his teeth, now, his inner rage slowly becoming more apparent as time progressed. “We are the Hands of God within Heaven. We are Her Light, her Hope, and we are Her Wrath. So everything we do is for the greater good, even if it means, how should I put this …? Cutting down.”

At that, Gabriel’s face suddenly lit up with an idea. 

“We cut them down,” he repeated, more slowly this time. “We make them Fall. After that, they’re not even our problem anymore!”

“Gabriel, have you gone stark raving bonkers?” Yelped Sariel, and he surprised the others by grabbing the fax from the machine and screwing it into a little ball. He lobbed it into the corner of the meeting room without care. “I didn’t fight in the Revolution just for you to gift Hell all the soldiers they could possibly want! We might as well just dress them in demon’s uniform and dump them all into the bowels of that infernal place ourselves! Why don’t we just let them run us through with their swords and - mmmphhwmmmph!”

Sariel was silenced when his body’s mouth suddenly disappeared entirely. He fingered angrily at the space underneath his moustache, humming incoherently. 

“See, the lesser angels make lesser demons. Child’s play, isn’t it? Even the Principalities can’t put up much of a fight, not against us. I think most of them have forgotten how. Dropping the bottom rung of Celestial Society like a sack of unwanted kittens is not going to cause us problems. In fact, it could solve them! Do you know how many rumours I’ve heard about angels wanting to rebel ever since that fiasco with that pathetic excuse of an angel, Aziraphale?” Gabriel insisted in a calming tone, perhaps sounding more like a used car salesman addressing a fatal fault on one of his vehicles with full intention of selling it. He pointed vaguely upwards and smiled, his lips twitching. “But questioning God’s Will? Which one of you is stupid enough to do that?”

And that was that. Nobody could question God. Nobody could even question Gabriel, the Highest authority in the Third Sphere, even if it seemed by this point he was probably going a bit mad.

“If it’s God’s Will,” murmured Michael, “then God’s Will be done.”

“God’s Will be done,” agreed Sandalphon.

“God’s Will be done,” muttered Raguel.

“God’s Will be done,” said Uriel.

“Mmmph wmmph wmmph,” mumbled Sariel.

“If we’re doing a restructure, can I get a job change? Please?” Ramiel asked, holding up a hand. “I’m so … I’m so _bored_ out there in the clouds, back to the Gates, in the clouds again … listening to the life stories of dead humans over and over ...”

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, we’ve been through this _literally_ a thousand times. Nobody wants your damn job, Ramiel. That’s why _you_ have it.”

“Oh. Then … God’s Will be done, I suppose.”

And Hence began the initiation of the Restructure, technically the Third of Its Kind, though prior restructures had not been designed to result in the Falling of millions of angels. They had been designed for war, and then for peace, but for all the doves flying about the place, there was no longer a whole lot of peace to be found. 

* * *

Back to Problem One, then, which only started becoming a problem some months later. 

Somewhere in a new and secretive part of Heaven, an amphitheatre of white stone was being constructed by lesser angels. The grand building, traditional in appearance and lined with statues of angels of note, sat in a world of perpetual night, the open plains of the cosmos hanging high in the sky. Miniature representations of important stars and supernovas and galaxies floated by the inky black openness of Space, and it was the hope that the Celestial Entities that took the Universe as their domain could look down upon the amphitheatre and observe. 

The moon hung low over the rounded edge of the building, unmoving, like a great, white eye overseeing all. Its light illuminated the near empty innards of the amphitheatre, from which lesser angels had been temporarily banished. Gabriel tread proudly down the marble white stairs, past the levels of stone seating, and past the terrifying, open maw of rapidly circling clouds at the amphitheatre’s very centre. If one were bold enough to approach this storm of swirling nightmares, they would see the Earth down below beneath the cacophony, ready and waiting. 

Gabriel stood on an elaborate podium on the other side of the Maw. It was there he would stand when that blessed day came, when he would cast his Holy Judgement unto the poor angels and Principalities and decide who stayed and who plunged into the wretched aether spinning down there into the stone. He regarded the Maw somewhat nervously, jumping a little when lightning flashed and the clouds made a gurgling, thunderous noise.

The Maw hungered. 

The Archangel’s guest did not seem particularly impressed, but then again, ze never did. 

Beelzebub, one of the Seven Princes of Hell and leader of Lucifer’s forces, trod down the stairs like a child that had been dragged to the supermarket by their overbearing mother. The demon always had the general air of being somewhere that ze did not want to be, and truth be told, Heaven was definitely one of those places. It reeked of bad memories and bad angels and _filth._ The flies buzzing permanently around Beelzebub’s head revelled in it, but ze wanted little more than to throw something in Gabriel’s unbearably smug face and vanish back to the comfortable gloominess of Hell. There came a certain necessity for a scrape of professionalism when one was so greatly outnumbered by Holy individuals, however, and worse, the Archangel would never shut up about it if ze left him hanging, now. 

They were all so easily offended, these days. Probably had something to do with losing the Apoca-not by not actually taking part at all. Beelzebub understood the open sores that had been a consequence of that one. 

Ze stopped at the very bottom stone step. The Demon Prince took in the brightly glowing moon, the pillars, the flowers that prettily decorated the pillars, the statues of noble angels with harps, and immediately wanted to vomit right into whatever that churning vortex was there in the middle of the circle. 

“Nice,” Beelzebub offered dryly, then swallowed back a belch. “‘Scuse me. Looks like some kinda torture device or somefin’? Ain’t nothing I ‘aven’t seen before, Mister Gabriel. I’m kind of in the business of torture an’ all that.”

Gabriel fought not to roll his eyes. Instead, he smiled across the amphitheatre floor, avoiding looking down into the vortex altogether. They’d had to arrange things so that he was standing right above the wretched thing, hadn’t they?

“You’ve seen something like this before? This? Really?” He said with evident disbelief, gesturing down at the mighty feat of magic and miracles. 

Beelzebub boldly walked down onto the floor and peered over the very rim of the Maw, raising zir eyebrows for a moment. 

“Maybe not the vortex, but definitely ‘ad a similar view. Ya know, when I was plummeting down the Earth’s atmosphere burning to a crisp, thanks to you lot. Remember?”

Now, when it came to Falling, there were two known ways that it could happen. One could Fall Un-literally or Spectacularly, there was no in between. The first method did not involve much on the angel’s part; it was simply that their lack of faith and/or their questioning of God’s Plan simply meant that one moment they were an angel, the next they were not. It could happen as quickly as a blink of an eye. These Fallen were led down to Earth on an escalator and left to their own devices there, where demons would no doubt sniff them out and absorb them into their hellish ranks. This method commonly befell lesser angels. 

To Fall Spectacularly was what befell more powerful angels, or those exceedingly traitorous to Heaven. This was what most imagined the process to be: quite literally being sent falling down in punishment to burn through the atmosphere and land somewhere, quite painfully, and be left alone with a broken body, broken thoughts. It was known to be something of a traumatic ordeal. Beelzebub and Crowley were but two examples of this method of becoming a demon, though the latter would often remove the drama of his divine punishment, simply preferring not to think about it too much. 

Beelzebub stared coldly up at Gabriel, who continued smiling back in return.

“Well, I couldn’t possibly remember every last one,” the Archangel said factually, though his tone suggested that he did, in fact, remember specifically. “Anyway, I didn’t bring you here to just show this to you. Why would I waste my - no, _our_ valuable time for that? The Third Sphere has something of a little proposal for you, Mister Lord of the Flies. Beetlebob, was it?”

The demon did not refrain from rolling zir eyes. It was quite the impressive eye-roll, too, Gabriel was forced to admit to himself.

“Speak, then, Fancypants. I’ve got stuff that needs sortin’ out Downstairs.”

“Right. Well, Heaven has found itself in need of a little Hellfire. Yes, again. This time we just need the smallest bit. A spark, if you will, not enough to kill an angel but certainly enough to strip them of all that makes them … Holy.” As he spoke, Gabriel pointed suggestively down towards the swirling Maw. “So that they Fall without having to question anything.”

An interesting request, to say the least. Admittedly intrigued, Beelzebub took a few steps away from the thundering vortex to sit back on the lowest level of the stone seating, casually folding zir legs to watch zir age-old nemesis from there. With a slight nod of a fluffy, fly-ridden head, ze encouraged him to continue, already somewhat aware of where things were going. 

“So … if you would grant a spark to this Devourer of Angelkind, we are happy to let you keep the demons that are born as a result. You get where I’m going with this, right? A generous boost to your numbers? Getting your name in good with the Big Boss, am I right?”

“‘Spose so,” Beelzebub agreed, checking rotted nails consideringly. “Look, Big Breeches, maybe I ain’t one of you no more, maybe I definitely don’t look like ya, but I ain’t stupid. In fact, I’m probably a bit smarter than you, awright? So let’s cut out the flowery nonsense, or I’m gonna bloody chunder faster than you can say ‘bullshit’, and I know you can spin that pretty quick.” The demon stretched zir arms back across the rounded stone bench, stopping only to scratch clumsily at the mop of black fly-like hair on zir head. “Lord Lucifer has wantin’ to be cuttin’ back on the dregs Downstairs, too, so the last thing _I’m_ wantin’ at this present time is millions of your crappiest angels becomin’ our problem.”

Up there on the extravagant podium, the Archangel’s handsome features soured considerably. His lips pursed, then didn’t, then pursed again. After a few short moments of absorbing all that had been said, he less-than-nobly slammed a fist down on the beautiful eagle lectern he had been anxiously holding on to, accidentally-on-purpose breaking off one of its finely crafted wings. 

“God fucking _dammit!_ ” 

“Careful, Gabes, there’s some kinda Falling Hole right there, and lotzzza space where She can hear ya up there.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Gabriel spat furiously, “you irritating, wasp-faced little -“

“There _is_ something that we do want!” Beelzebub announced, wearing the expression of somebody enduring a small child’s temper tantrum. “So shut _up_ for two minutes, yeah? Maybe we can still work it out.”

The pair glared at each other in silence, because that was something that they did. They had been rivals for millennia, ever since the Revolution that had ended quite differently for the both of them. They were equals; leaders of their respective Spheres/Circles, and had in actuality known each other for a short time in Heaven, back in the day. If anything, that made their hatred for each other all the more potent, being cut from the same cloth but being so wildly … similar?

“What else could you possibly want?” Gabriel asked, running a hand back through his dark hair. He was inwardly fretting that his deal had fallen through so quickly, though hung tightly on to that spark of hope his adversary had offered. 

“The Dark Lord heard on the grapevine that somebody’s been chucked outta the First Sphere. Felt it, he says. Some kinda temporary banishment down on Earth. You heard anythin’ ‘bout that, then?”

Gabriel merely scoffed in response. “Bullshit. I would have been told.”

 _I would have taken their place,_ he thought to himself, fingers tightening on the broken lectern. Distracted by Beelzebub’s rotting, slimy smile, his nose creased in utter distaste. 

“A Throne was sent to Earth, and He wants it. Doesn’t want no crappy angels, He wants _that_ one. But do ya think we can find the bloody thing? You’d think a giant flying wheel with eyes wouldn’t be so hard to pin down, but, ugh. Almost like somebody’s hidden it. Out of sight, out of mind. Just like you lot did with us lot,” Beelzebub lamented, as dry as the Arctic. “I’ll power up your vortex-thingy, but only if you get that Throne to us. If anyone’s gonna find it, it’ll be another angel, not one of the unholy slugs that work for me.”

Somehow, Gabriel just knew who that angel could have been. The only one presently stationed on Earth. The only one who could possibly get caught up in so much trouble, probably without even realising it. The absolute dolt. 

The Archangel climbed down from the podium and made for his demonic adversary, extending his hand as if to take zirs and shake it, though immediately thought better of it upon seeing the state of zir nails. Subconsciously wiping his hand on the back of his suit jacket, he nodded at the other, instead, solidifying their agreement. 

Beelzebub did some kind of non-committal half-nod in return. Ze sighed dramatically and then stood, moving past Gabriel to look upon the storming vortex set into the ground. Ze closed zir eyes and held on to the stupid little velvet rope that surrounded the hole, and then the ground began to rumble threateningly.

Alarmed, Gabriel raced to stand beside the demon, gaping at zir with wide eyes. 

“Just a little bit! A spark!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep ya hair on.”

The ground rumbled some more, as if the entirety of the burning rivers of Hell were about to emerge in a towering spire. Gabriel could have combusted in his utter panic. Weeks of work, ruined!

And then the shaking and grumbling stopped. With an obscene little _pfffssht_ sound, a tiny but brightly glowing spark of Hellfire spurted out of a crack in the stone beneath their feet and shot into the storming Maw. In response, the clouds began to spin that tiny bit faster, taking on a vaguely orangey hue. Gabriel jumped again when lightning cracked out of the hole and into the blackness of Space. 

Then, he smirked a very Gabriel-esque smirk, though it fell slightly when he saw Beelzebub was frowning intensely up at him. 

“What?”

“Well,” the demon began, and ze sighed dramatically a second time. “All well and good, right, but we’ve still got millionzzz of Fallen and demons that ain’t got no place to go.”

Gabriel just shrugged and peered down into the Maw, straight down towards Earth itself. 

“They’re not going to be our problem anymore, are they, now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is I Can’t Decide by Scissor Sisters.


	3. Something, that Fell

Crowley stared down his plants like a drill sergeant would intimidate his subordinates. Lacing his hands behind his back, he stepped into the dim room that housed the plants and slowly, slowly prowled among them, his nose curled in apparent disgust. His furious silence unnerved the plants even more so than his usual shouting, though they knew that that, too, was likely forthcoming. 

Stopping, the demon looked downwards and disapprovingly regarded a single leaf that had fallen from a mystery suspect. It was beginning to brown around the edges. Stooping down, he picked up the leaf and held it up for them all to witness, and the plants began to tremble.

“Who did this?” Crowley asked quietly, slowly turning with the leaf still held aloft. “Which one of you miserable bastards did this?”

The only response was the continued trembling of branches and leaves. Crowley sucked in a breath and gnawed on his lower lip, bringing the fallen leaf into his palm to crumple it into sticky, green mush. With a pained but accepting nod, he flicked the remnants of it right into the broad, shaking leaves of an enormous philodendron.

“I thought I told you to AIM FOR YOUR POTS, YOU FOUL, LOATHSOME _WEEDS_. WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER KEEPING ANY OF YOU AROUND? ALL YOU DO IS MAKE A BLOODY MESS OF EVERYTHING!” Rounding on a schefflera, he aggressively jabbed a finger in its direction, positively seething. The plant began to tremble so much that its pot threatened to tip straight off its shelf. “Oh, I know it was you. You and your stupid yellow spots. You thought, oh, Crowley’s going through a hard time, let’s PISS HIM OFF EVEN MORE! You’ll rue the day, son, you really will, yeah, when I’m force feeding you through the shredder ROOTS-FIRST. What was God thinking when She created you, eh? You’re her biggest bloody mistake. MISTAKES! ALL OF -“

His phone began to ring in his pocket. Holding the schefflera by the rim of its pot like one might grip the collar of an adversary, Crowley yanked his phone free and bellowed mightily down the receiver:

“BLOODY WHAT?!”

“Good Lord! It’s me!”

“Oh, hello, Aziraphale!” The demon greeted, his tone brightening into something considerably more friendly with unnerving speed. Lowering the plant back onto its spot, he quickly began to spray it with water, instead, feeling as though he had been caught red-handed. “How’s it going, then? Figured out how to call me on there?”

“Oh, yes, I did try to text, you know, but for _some_ reason it kept correcting ‘ducks’ to, er, fu… uh, you know. Was that you, by any chance?”

“No,” Crowley replied, less than innocently. “No, wasn’t me.”

“Anyway, I’m heading to St. James’s Park. I have the, um …” Aziraphale paused, and Crowley could almost see him leaning in, cupping a hand around the mobile receiver. “The _stuff_.”

Forced to restrain a chuckle (he didn’t want to give his wretched plants the wrong impression, after all, in case they deluded themselves into the notion that their master was _nice_ ), Crowley lightly cleared his throat and made his way over to a shelf holding an array of lilies that he had grown himself. In full view of the rest of the room, he admired the sweetly scented, pure white petals and the gold dusted stamen.

“The stuff,” he repeated flatly, hiding his amusement. “Sorry, are we in a crime drama all of a sudden? You mean the holy water?”

A patient sigh sounded faintly on the other side of the line. 

“I’m on a bus, Crowley, and anyone could be listening. Holy … _you-know-what_ sounds too suspicious!”

“And _stuff_ doesn’t?” The demon asked, smirking slightly. 

“To the right people, no. You’re the one that had to write it down that time, if you recall. ‘The ducks have ears’ or something like that. Well, anybody on this bus could be a duck and I’d be absolutely none-the-wiser -“

“Oh, my God, angel. All right, fair enough. I’m on my way. Hang tight.” Hanging up, Crowley lifted the pot of lilies and inspected the leaves for any traitorous brown spots. They were free of any imperfections, fortunately for them, luscious and smooth and soft at the petals. Pleased, he lifted the pot for all to see as he made his way towards the rest of the flat. “Look here, you _pathetic_ excuses for flora-kind. THIS is a plant! THIS IS HOW YOU GROW! IF I COME HOME TO _ONE MORE LEAF_ ON THIS GOD-FORSAKEN GROUND … Oooh, WELL.”

Backing out of the room, he made a point of slamming the door behind him. At once, he began pulling on his least favourite black jacket; it was raining outside, and had been for at least a week. London’s heatwave had been, as expected, short-lived. Despite the gloominess of the day and the disparaging behaviour towards his plants, Crowley was not actually in a bad mood.

Not yet, anyway.

Shielding the lily plant from the rain with his jacket, the demon ran outside and quickly entered the Bentley. He never usually bothered with the vestigial seatbelts he was certain that Aziraphale had secretly miracled into his car (he couldn’t remember ever _not_ having them, so it remained a mystery), though he glanced over at the plant now sat beside him in the passenger seat. After a moment’s consideration, he leaned over and pulled the seatbelt over the pot and clicked it in place.

Ridiculous, he thought. The lilies were, in their truest form, a gift. In his mind, they were a half-baked apology; demons didn’t give gifts because it kind of went against everything that they were, so there was always an excuse to somehow make it _not_ a gift even though it actually was, such as sharing in it or lying about it. Knowing Aziraphale, the flowers would probably die within a week, anyway, and he’d forget to miracle them back to life, not out of any kind of malice but simply because he could tend to forget about things that weren’t books. So, it didn’t really matter whether they were a gift or an apology after all. Why had he grown them, again?

Oh, right. The holy water, or the _stuff,_ as Aziraphale put it. 

Finding himself actually becoming nervous about the upcoming exchange, Crowley took out his anxieties on the traffic. It was rush hour, but rush hour didn’t really mean much to a demon - he got from his flat to Westminster in roughly ten minutes by flooring it through line upon line of honking cars and buses. In doing so, he made a few thousand people late for dinner, and about twelve police constables mysteriously turned a blind eye to the Bentley as it shot past at ninety miles-per-hour towards St. James’s Park. 

Those short ten minutes later, Crowley was trudging over to the lake, already annoyed that he was getting wet in the generous drizzle casting a dull, grey filter over everything. The only thing that this filter never seemed to affect was Aziraphale, who stuck out like a sore thumb with his suede coat and faintly luminescent aura. He was stood facing the lake with a pale blue umbrella, surrounded by legions of so many ducks and swans that Crowley had to carefully step over some of the birds or nudge them aside to approach.

“Angel,” Crowley greeted, glancing down at the tupperware container the other held. “Whassat, then? Vegetables?”

“Oh, I was looking it up on the phone, Crowley. Apparently bread is actually _bad_ for them. I felt terrible for all the times I’ve fed them anything as dull as bread!” The angel lamented, lightly shaking the last of the duck-specialised salad it contained within. He tucked the container away and smiled worriedly at Crowley, moving closer so that they could share the shelter of the umbrella. It was then that he noticed the lily plant tucked under the demon’s arm, and his eyes positively lit up. “Oh, goodness. Well, how lovely. Did you grow them yourself?”

“No,” Crowley mumbled quickly, proffering the pot forwards. “‘Course not. Just nipped into a Wilko’s on the way here. Thought they might brighten up your workspace a bit, or something. You know.”

Concern vanished from the angel’s face momentarily as he took the white lilies and admired them, though to Crowley’s disappointment, he did seem to put two and two together. Demons didn’t _really_ give gifts, after all, and the times this particular demon ever did anything that could maybe, possibly be construed as pleasant, he tried not to be so obvious about it. Something like flowers was pretty damn obvious, Crowley realised about ten minutes too late. Maybe he should have just thrown them into the lake; at least the ducks would have gotten one of their five a day.

“Thank you, they certainly will,” Aziraphale responded, still smiling with gratitude, though there was a nervousness to the way he spoke, now. Shifting the plant under his arm, he gave the umbrella to Crowley to hold and reached into an inner pocket of his coat. From a pocket that seemed too small from the outside, he produced a flask patterned with crimson tartan and very, very carefully held it forwards. The lid was neatly duct-taped to the flask. Aziraphale pursed his lips, clearly uncomfortable with the exchange. “I had it flown in from Israel, from a sacred site. It’s probably been blessed three-dozen times by holy men. I even blessed it myself, just to be sure -“

“Angel,” Crowley gently interrupted, reaching for the flask. Feeling warm, soft skin beneath his fingertips, he tentatively touched the back of the other’s hand in a grateful gesture, knowing full well that words of gratitude were banished where holy water was concerned. 

Aziraphale looked away and very reluctantly relinquished it, taking a moment too long to let go. He took back the umbrella and awkwardly cast his gaze about, his brow tightly pinched, though he did eventually meet his friend’s concealed eyes again, appearing so fraught with worry that there was a mortifying kind of sadness to him. Sadness did not become an angel. In fact, it only made it seem all the worse.

Crowley absolutely could not bear those puppy-like eyes. They were a sincere weakness of his. He fought to ignore them as he carefully hid the flask in his jacket, though couldn’t help but pout jokingly in response when it seemed Aziraphale wasn’t going to knock it off any time soon. 

“What? Are you scared I’m going to fizzle away like the Wicked Witch of the West?” His pout deepened.

“It’s hardly something to speak so … so frivolously about, Crowley, is it,” Aziraphale responded with his usual haughtiness, though the lugubrious tinge to his eyes remained. “Fizzling away. It isn’t as if you even really need that - _that._ You have me. Why can’t I be your insurance?”

The demon snorted, but his smirk fell when he saw that his friend was being completely serious. 

“Because you’re not a flask of water, Aziraphale,” he retorted flatly, though there was a dangerous edge to his voice in an attempt to ward off the looming threat of an argument. “You’re my best friend. What do you think I would do, exactly? Hold you by the legs and swing you around like a sword? _En garde,_ _demon scum!”_

He was the only one to appreciate that imagery.

If Aziraphale felt any sort of anger in response, it was swiftly smothered. His eyes dropped, and he turned back to face the lake, his lips tightly pressed together in absolute disapproval. 

“No,” he murmured, so quietly that Crowley barely heard it above the quacking and honking of the birds pattering about the place. Even the rain gently sprinkling the umbrella over their heads was louder than the sudden softness of his voice. 

“It’s not that I think you can’t,” the demon said quickly, just in case he had wounded the other’s pride. “I know that you know a thing or two about - that, but -“

Aziraphale gasped in absolute affront, his jaw dropping. Crowley actually had to take a small step back when the other rounded on him quite suddenly, fearing that he was about to get an umbrella prong poked unceremoniously into his eye, despite his sunglasses. (Where there was a will, there was a way.)

“Don’t you _dare_ bring that up!” 

Crowley was lost, now.

“Bring _what_ up?”

“The … the - that _War_ … that was - it was a bloody long time ago, and I’ll thank you not to insinuate that I’m some sort of - murderous savage!“

“You what? I _wasn’t!”_

It was Aziraphale’s turn to take a step back. 

“Where the _bloody hell_ is this all coming from?” Crowley continued, toning down the aggression, though there was still a good deal of venom to be heard. Behind his sunglasses, his yellow eyes narrowed. “I just don’t want you to have to spend your every moment around _me_ risking getting your holy backssside chargrilled into non-existence courtesy of the Demon Princes that would have my head, do you hear me? I don’t want you getting involved in whatever business I have with Hell!”

“Oh is - is that so?” The angel nodded, the fury in his eyes brimming with a mysterious and infuriating _sadness_. “Then - yes, then I don’t want _you_ getting involved in whatever business I have with Heaven!”

“All right. All right, fine then!” Crowley spread his arms and lifted his shoulders in a carefree shrug that was not actually carefree at all, but laden with every possible worry imaginable. Turning, he made to stride off into the rain away from the conflict, but he managed about two steps before he abruptly turned around again, his features creasing as he rejoined his friend under the perceived safety of the umbrella. He took off his sunglasses, briefly, one pair of scared eyes meeting the other. “Look, what’s going on, angel?”

The ducks continued quacking around them, filling the silence. The birds took joy in the rain. Their dumb and absolutely untroubled nature was utterly enviable. 

The humans in the park, by extension, were also enviable in that they could walk past and glance at the squabbling pair and then just carry on with their lives. The people on the benches could just sit and they could stare with mindless curiosity. There were a lot of people wearing black that day, which sort of fitted the general mood of things. It was almost a bit weird, actually. 

“Angel?” Crowley pressed when his friend couldn’t manage an answer. “Come on, now. Doesn’t it feel like all we do is argue at the moment? That’s not us, is it? It’s not. Bickering, yeah, all right, but this?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted defeatedly. “Yes, that chess game last week was positively feral.”

“Right? I thought you were going to smite me after that check-mate.” The demon made a noise that crudely imitated thunder, his hands dramatically demonstrating an explosion of some sort. 

“Oh, please don’t. Look, my dear, I’m just a little frayed at the edges at the moment. Every time I turn I half expect to see - _them_ , standing there waiting. I thought that …” Aziraphale paused, clearing his throat. “I thought that you and I would have longer. Much longer. But, mh … no, I really have been more than a little bit of a bastard, actually, and now … oh, dear me. What a mess.”

The puppy-dog eyes were agonising.

“Let’s get out of this rain,” Crowley suggested uneasily, forcing himself to sit on his anger. “I’ll give you a lift. We can talk it out or something. Where do you wanna go?” Putting a hand over his friend’s, he took the umbrella from him and made sure that the angel was well and truly shielded from the rain before offering up his arm. “The Bentley’s safe, but ducks _do_ have ears, actually. I looked it up. They’re just sort of like little holes. Bit gross.”

Aziraphale’s sweet attempt at a smile could have formed a rainbow, if he’d have been so inclined. He considered the demon, then gingerly took the offered arm, linking them together. 

“My dear, there’s something I’ve been meaning to …”

Whatever was said next fell on deaf ears. Crowley’s attentions had abruptly shifted.

He had a habit of glancing around just to make sure nothing suspicious was afoot. Spending millennia looking over his shoulder in case any of his demonic and sadistic superiors realised he wasn’t up to as much bad as he should have been had taught him a thing or two about being careful. Anything could be a threat. One time, Duke Hastur scared him half to death by leaping out of a wheelie bin outside his apartment building. 

He had glanced around, partly out of habit, and partly because he had just acquired a very frowned upon substance from the Other Side right out in the open. While that didn’t matter so much anymore (because technically the pair were on their own side, now), it probably hadn’t been the best idea while trying to lay low. 

There was no point in trying to hide anything, now. It was too late.

All of the humans within about fifty metres of them weren’t moving. They were stood, staring. At them. 

All dressed in black, some of them wearing malicious smiles, while others grimaced in disgust. There were twelve of them. Crowley chanced a suspicious glance down the ducks, just as an afterthought - and indeed, there were a few down there in the huddle with unnatural colours and beedy, very peeved off little eyes. 

So it hadn’t just been duck shit he was smelling. 

Demons. How _long_ had they been there?

Frozen, Crowley pushed at the underside of his lip with his tongue. 

“Absolute punks,” he grumbled, lifting the umbrella slightly to get a better look at them all. He suddenly felt very open and very, very vulnerable. Linking arms with an angel in front of roughly fifteen unfamiliar demons was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done, but he didn’t regret it. Not one bit. In fact, he only made a show of it, lightly patting Aziraphale’s forearm. 

“Oh, dear,” he heard Aziraphale say. “Crowley, I really thought I had convinced them to -“

“You did. They were bound not to forget about us, though. We knew that.” Straightening up a little, he avoided eye-contact with any of Hell’s agents, trying to urge his companion into a walk. “Right, then. Shall we make a beeline for it? Looks like the weather’s taking a turn for the worse.”

“Right. Yes, of course. This way.” Aziraphale took the lead. A black swan snapped at his ankle, but he paid it no mind. 

“What was that you were trying to tell me?”

“That’s hardly important right this second.”

* * *

There were probably two reasons that the demons didn’t make a move. The first reason was that they were smack-bang in the middle of St. James’s Park, which could be busy even on the rainiest of days as tourists and young adults tried to snap their Instagram selfies with a pelican over one shoulder and Buckingham Palace over the other. 

The second reason was that these particular demons had only ever _heard_ of Crowley and Aziraphale, and had never actually seen them in action. The demon was immune to holy water, so they had heard, and the angel was somehow immune to hellfire. The rumour was that they had spent so long on Earth that they had taken the phrase ‘gone native’ and run with it - they had evolved into whole Other Beings. Monstrosities, really. There could only ever be one or the other, after all.

As lesser demons, they were also disposable in the eyes of those who mattered. They had their orders. Maybe the demon known as Crowley could be taken by the group of them, but they had to get the angel out of the way, first. So, they waited, silently staring as the pair made a hasty escape out of the park. While they desperately wanted commendations, none of them particularly wanted to have their arses handed to them on a holy golden platter, either (or a rustic Victorian timbale mould, going by the suspiciously un-ferocious angel Crowley kept on his arm).

Marchosias was one of the demons stood staring. Once a great Marquis of Hell, she had suffered a demotion following an incident with a Throne from Heaven. Quite recently, in fact. She had lost that fight, and Beelzebub had not been best pleased.

She lifted her umbrella, wolf-like eyes narrowing. If she were not wearing a human disguise, she would normally be seen wearing the pelt of a black wolf over her head and shoulders. Her teeth and nails would be long and blackened with some kind of gross ooze. 

Hound, Dagon had called her. No longer a Marquis of Hell but a dog bred to retrieve fallen angels like they were pheasants. 

Once Crowley and Aziraphale were out of sight, Marchosias jerked her head as a signal to the others. One by one, the demons began to disappear in bursts of flame, mysteriously unseen to any of the real humans going about their day. 

* * *

“Shit. Shit shit shit _shit!_ ” Crowley hissed, slamming his hands on the steering wheel as soon as they were inside the Bentley. “Bastards! Absolute - wazzocks!”

“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale agreed anxiously, sat rigid with the potted lily plant held tight to his lap. His eyes were soft despite his nerves, and he glanced at Crowley, even extending a hand to place momentarily on the other’s forearm. “It’s all right.”

“All right?! What do I do, Aziraphale? They’re bloody after me! The whole lot of ‘em! Oh, you were right, we didn’t have long enough. Two years! Two measly years after helping save the entire planet from a miserable bloody Apocalypse! Now Hell’s gotten wise and I’m gonna be -“

“You’re not going to be _anything_ ,” Aziraphale scolded him, quite firmly. “That’s quite enough of that. We’ve gotten out of worse scrapes than a few lesser demons, haven’t we?”

“Yeah - yeah, I just - Can I come back to the bookshop with you? Like, lie low there for a bit? Would you mind?” 

As Crowley spoke, he quickly started up the car and headed out into the road. With a remarkable disregard for any other motorist or any pedestrian, he shoved his foot down and floored it, eager to get away from Westminster as quickly as the Bentley could go - and that was surprisingly fast. 

At the silence, he turned to regard Aziraphale, stunned. The angel didn’t seem to know what to say. Was that - reluctance? Fear? He wore his emotions as easily as he wore those stupid bow-ties, it was rarely particularly difficult to know what he was thinking. Crowley felt his heart sink, and then it pounded painfully in anger.

“Right,” he muttered, turning back to the road. “I’ll just drop you off, then.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “Wh-what? No, Crowley, you’re misunderstanding! I - it’s just I am fairly certain that the bookshop is no safer than your flat. Perhaps even _more_ dangerous -“

“What was all that talk about wanting to be my insurance, then, eh?” The demon continued bitterly. “I’ve got one flask of holy water - I really am grateful, by the way - but _fifteen_ demons just popped up to intimidate us, and I really don’t think -“

“Crowley, just - Oh my Lord, just slow down! Please!” Aziraphale begged, one hand holding on to the dashboard for dear life, the other keeping the lily plant safely tucked into his lap. “You’ll hit someone!”

The car slowed, just a little bit. It was only by the grace of miracles (holy and unholy alike) that no accidents were caused by the decidedly hurried and reckless driving. It wasn’t even all that clear where they were; the rain had violently splattered against the windows and left streaks which Crowley had been too distracted to clear away. Hitting the button for the wipers, he turned to regard his companion with a frown. 

Aziraphale was glowing. Confused, Crowley stared at him a few seconds more. The man was bathed in a white light which seemed to be getting brighter and brighter, and it took him far too long to realise that the light was actually coming from the outside, not within. 

“Cr-Crowley -“ the angel managed, his eyes widening, fixed on something ahead of them. “CROWLEY!”

One moment they were hurtling forwards, the next, they were not. Well, Aziraphale wasn’t, at least, and Crowley saw the split second where his friend’s head and arms snapped forwards.

The world continued to move, though, smashing out of the windscreen. It all seemed to go past in slow motion. He saw the now crunched up front of his beloved Bentley, which was smooshed against the front of another car he hadn’t seen coming. 

As the demon soared from one car into the other, he had time for one thought and one thought only. 

_SEATBELT!_

This was it. He was going to discorporate right there and then with that one singular thought as a farewell to the Earth. At least he’d be going out with a bang, though that didn’t really matter when his celestial body was likely going to be tortured for an eternity for all his slights against Hell after this.

Speaking of Hell, were those demons in the other car?

Glass shards in their millions soared in every direction, catching the meagre light of the Sun as it peeped through the clouds for mere seconds. Crowley felt the burn of friction as he skidded across the bonnet of the offending vehicle and then straight into the windscreen. That part, that _really_ hurt.

He might have been unconscious for a few seconds. Becoming distinctly aware of the smell of smoke, he supposed that was his human body succumbing to death. About time, he reckoned. This particular body was getting on a bit. Shame he wouldn’t be given another one, though. 

Then there came an intense dizziness. Fresh from the sudden and violent impacts, he couldn’t move. His throat - his still very human throat - made a crude gargling sound, and he tasted something warm and metallic on the back of his tongue. He tried to say a name, but it only came out as a bubbling gurgle.

He wasn’t discorporated, then. But this was still bad. Very, _very_ bad. 

“Eurgh,” he heard an unfamiliar voice groan. “Did ya have to go quite so bleedin’ fast, Luvart?” A pause. “Luvart?” Another pause. “Luvart discorporated, the bloody idiot! There’s ash everywhere!”

“Get the Snake, ya moron, before Marchosias gets here!”

The Snake? Oh, right. That was probably him. 

Despite whatever injuries he might have sustained, Crowley forced himself slowly up on his arms, feeling glass bend against his back. His head and shoulders had breached the windscreen of the other car, and he attempted to pull himself backwards, reaching deep down for a miracle to heal the grievous wound on his neck. He could hear screams, running feet, though it sounded awfully like the humans that had witnessed the crash were running away.

No doubt thanks to the demons that had chased the pair down. Probably for the best no humans were around to see whatever came next.

Car doors slammed and shook the smoking vehicle. Able to breathe again, Crowley opened his eyes in time to see several pairs of gnarled hands reaching for him. With a groan, he allowed himself to be pulled off the bonnet and tossed onto the hard, wet road below. 

Something sloshed within an inner pocket of his jacket. _Praise Mankind for duct tape._

“Afternoon, boys,” Crowley greeted, pushing himself into a seated position. Though haggard with bruises and cuts all over him, he sighed as if he had been mildly inconvenienced, and then he pulled his broken sunglasses from his head, dropping them onto the road. “What brings you to London on a day like this?”

“Shut iiiiitt,” one of the demons huffed. There were two of them there, stood either side of him. Another pair were at the Bentley, assumedly dealing with Aziraphale, unseen past the open door. 

Crowley’s heart quickened. He tried to get a glance of what was going on. If they were there, it meant the angel hadn’t discorporated, either, but there was a distinct lack of a fight going on. He winced, guilt pooling in his gut; things hadn’t meant to end, not so soon, not like _this._

“Where is it, then?” The other demon snarled, kicking at Crowley’s shin.

“Ow. Where’s what, exactly? My patience? Fleeing the scene, I’d say.” Squinting, he peered up at the two dim figures blocking his view. He just needed more time to think of a plan! “Are any of you going to introduce yourselves, then? I’d like to know the names of any demon that can thwart _me_ , to be quite honest. Maybe I can pass it on, you know,” he pointed towards the ground, “downstairs. Get in some commendations. ‘Bout time they started shelling those out, right?”

The demons looked at each other.

The tallest of them, who had a shock of white hair and a rusted old crown perched on his head, scuffed a foot on the ground. 

“Verrier,” he said.

“Olivier,” the other, stouter one muttered. He looked like a banker that had been dragged through a hedge backwards. “That pile of ashes was Luvart.”

“Oh, fantastic,” Crowley responded amicably. “What about those two?” Gesturing to the pair by the Bentley, he used it as an excuse to get another look at what was going on. 

“That’s Pythius and Ariton,” Olivier responded proudly. “Will you really put a good word in for us?”

“Pack it in, both of ya,” Verrier interrupted, nervously turning to face the others. “One sec. Is the angel gonna be a problem?”

Peering intently past the legs of the demon, Crowley watched as Aziraphale’s limp form was at last tugged out of the Bentley and dropped to the road with a wet _thud._ A cold anger coiled threateningly in his chest as he observed, but there was little he could do about it. Not yet, at least; he was still very much dazed, but most of all it was getting difficult to see past the red hot fury that was steadily ramping up within. The demons would be torn apart for this, and he would see to it personally. 

Aziraphale was rolled onto his front, his jacket stained with rainwater and the muddy footprints of the feet used to shift him. The demons were understandably hesitant to get too close - the two that had pulled him free were even wearing thick gardening gloves.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Ariton offered. He was very thin and pointed, and swished a long forked tail this way and that in his agitation. He then did a repulsive little dance, shaking his hands about. “Euuuugh! I can’t believe I just _touched_ it! Ew! Ew!”

Pythius didn’t seem quite as affected. She stared down at her captive with eyes not unlike Crowley’s. A long, forked tongue slipped out from between her sharp teeth, scenting the air. 

“Ssshhht ssiissssss snssss tzzss?” She enquired, the unintelligible sound of her speech seeming to sound from absolutely everywhere, from between the shops and buildings spanning the street, from the very earth itself. Everyone shivered.

“She asked what … what _kind_ it is,” Ariton translated. He kicked curiously at Aziraphale’s hand, then squealed and danced about a bit again, claws running down his upper arms in disgust. 

The demons leaned in. Verrier huffed again, anxiously touching at the crown upon his head as if to make sure it was still there.

“Look at the hair. Must be a … a P-Principality,” he snivelled. “Looks like a nice one, too. Maybe even … one like _me._ ” Verrier raised his fist to his mouth and bit down on it, closing his eyes tightly in a display of abrupt emotion. Olivier very quickly patted his arm.

“There, there. Is Head Office still wanting Principalities?”

“Who cares?!” Ariton piped up, curling his arms around his thin frame. “Let’s just kill it alreadyyyy! We’re not here to go angel hunting! Besides, there’s a rumour the Dark Council are going to be making _redundancies_ , soooo … Pythius, kill it kill it kill it, please, before it - ewww - before it wakes up!”

While they had been distracted, Crowley had a hand in his pocket and was urgently tugging at the duct tape sealing the flask of holy water. He had to do it as quickly and carefully as possible in case there was a crack that he couldn’t see. The blessed liquid within would render him extinct quicker than he could say ‘dodo’, and this would be a really bad time for that to happen. 

“Don’t,” Crowley called before he could even think, quickly pulling his hand from his pocket. A hunk of tape came with it, and he flicked it off with the help of the puddle he was currently sat in. “What’s the point? You can’t kill him, he’s immune to hellfire - or hadn’t you heard? You don’t want to make him angry, do you? Oo-oo-ooh.” He wiggled his fingers spookily.

Three of the four demons made a noise of fear and cringed. Crowley continued:

“Exactly. And you don’t want to make _me_ angry, either, actually. Remember Ligur? Yeah, yeah, nasty way to go. That was me, by the way. I did it. _I_ killed him.”

Another gasp of fear. The demons took a step backwards.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Crowley said with a wry smirk. Unsteadily getting to his feet, he miracled his clothes dry and also extended magic towards Aziraphale in an attempt to heal him. “Hell’s made a huge mistake by bothering us. You can all push off, now, before I melt you all into oblivion, ‘cause I am _not_ coming with you. Not today, not _ever_.”

The demons didn’t run off as expected. Instead, they just looked confused. Olivier raised a short, shaking finger. 

“Um, actually, we were sent to interrogate you about where the Throne is. So, you _could_ just tell us, then we won’t have to bother you again.”

“Throne,” Crowley repeated slowly. “I’ve got a throne in my flat. You can have it, I’ll just take a new one.” His gaze flickered down to Aziraphale, whose leg had just twitched. “It’s nice, honest.”

“Not _that_ kind of throne!” Verrier seethed, his pale eyes brightening with anger. “A Throne of Heaven! An angel! It came down an’ caused a right ruckus! Only everythin’ about it seems to ‘ave been covered up, ‘cause all the humans have just forgotten and there’s nothin’ in the news, is there? Which means someone - a _celestial_ someone found out and hid that blasted thing somewhere! An’ you’re the only demon that spends all your time up here on this infernal planet, so cough up the goods, mister!”

Crowley felt strangely out of the loop. 

It seemed right that he would know something, because he almost always knew something about anything, even if he wasn’t directly involved. At that moment, however, he felt lost. He felt _annoyed_. 

“I have no idea what you’re blithering on about,” he retorted honestly, spreading his hands in a show of sincerity. “Do you really think I give a stuff about Heaven after everything?”

On the ground, Aziraphale was stirring into consciousness. His hand moved to the back of his neck, then away again, pressing to the rain-soaked ground. 

“Psssss sssszzzz,” hissed Pythius, the sound crawling up from the gutters. Ariton sighed heavily in response.

“She said he is telling the truth. Ugh. Typical. But, uh, he was lying about the hellfire thing.”

Damn it all. The python-demon was a lie machine. Handy for them, not so handy for Crowley, who had been relying on intimidation. He stood shock still, trying not to be affected by the former Principality’s extremely malicious smile. He was sure he saw a caterpillar crawling about the creature’s stained yellow teeth. 

Verrier turned and - the idiot, the absolute _idiot_ \- produced a blackened dagger from the inside of his tattered raincoat. Taking a clumsy step over Aziraphale, he crouched down and yanked the angel up to his chest, pressing the no doubt hellfire-forged dagger against the skin of his soft neck. Aziraphale blinked a few times, his bleary eyes focusing immediately on Crowley, who looked on, aghast. 

Then the angel groaned in pain. First past his teeth in attempts to restrain in, and then he gasped, desperately struggling against the blade beginning to smoke against his neck. 

“Ow! Ow ow _ow_ \- what on _earth_ -“

“Maybe _you_ know where the Throne is, eh?” Verrier pressed, and when he was met with pained silence, he pressed the flat edge of the blade right against the blood trailing down his victim’s cheek. 

Aziraphale howled. 

Something in the distance howled back. 

Crowley shoved his hand back into his pocket.

“You’ll regret that,” he promised quietly, pulling out the tartan flask. The demons chortled at the sight of it, but then their faces fell as he covered his hand with his sleeve and began unscrewing the lid. 

Half of the flask’s contents were gracefully flung over Verrier and Aziraphale. To the latter, the holy water of course did nothing, only diluting down into his damp clothes. The former, however, was absolutely doomed. 

It was easier watching it happen a second time. 

Verrier screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed in the kind of agony only a handful of beings knew. His crown melted first, and he scrabbled desperately at it in the vain hope of saving it, but then his hands were gone, too. The demon screamed and he steamed and folded down into himself until there was nothing left but a pile of smoking sludge. 

The other demons were screaming, too. So was Aziraphale, who was desperately shoving himself away and covering his eyes with his hands. 

Crowley very carefully screwed the lid of the flask back on and pocketed it, though was sure to do it without the demons noticing. With a ghastly kind of bellow, he feinted and pretended to throw himself towards them, to which they screamed again and immediately disappeared in bright bursts of flame. 

He then fell backwards onto his arse. 

Every inch of him ached. Listening to the sound of the rain and Aziraphale’s ragged breathing, he worked on quickly healing his body back to an acceptable standard and then got to his knees, shuffling up to his friend so that he could gently pry the angel’s hands from his face.

“It’s all right, they’re gone, but sounds like others are coming. We’ve gotta get a move on, quickly.”

Aziraphale was frozen, wide, pale eyes fixed on the bubbling blob on the ground that was a now eternally extinct demon. Crowley didn’t much like to look at it, either, so he kept his back turned to it, attempting to rouse some semblance of consciousness back into his companion. 

“C’mon. C’mon, angel, we need to find somewhere to hide. They’re after some - a Throne, or something?” Crowley shook his head. His thoughts still weren’t entirely pieced together. “Isn’t there anywhere holy around here we can go while we think of something?”

Those wounded eyes were upon him, then, slowly absorbing information. They closed. Aziraphale touched his fingertips lightly to his wet and bloodied temples, brow furrowing. As he focused, Crowley took the time to heal the angry burns on Aziraphale’s neck and cheek, feeling an awful swoop of guilt in his belly. Why, he had no idea; he knew that the demons weren’t actually after him, just information that they didn’t have.

Information he _thought_ they didn’t have, at least. 

Aziraphale had seemed so worried, lately.

“Angel,” Crowley mumbled, shuffling closer. “What’s going on?”

“What? No, I don’t … I’m not sure … Well - There’s a church half a mile away. We’d better fix up the Bentley, lickety-split. Come on.”

The angel stood up on shaking legs and walked away, leaving Crowley there in the rain feeling rather lost and in something of a bad mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Umbrella by Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox.


	4. The Rain Just Keeps Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features mentions of death, namely child death, and will also appear at points in later chapters.

For Reverend Clarke, it was a Sunday like any other. 

All of the available services that day had come to a quiet end. Only three had attended the evening one, and one of those few had been very drunk and didn’t know exactly where they were, but that was fine. Everybody was welcome through the doors of Clarke’s small and unassuming church. She had cleaned up the intoxicated individual and sent him on his way. 

Everybody else had gone home. Like always, she would be the one to lock the doors and venture off home on the Underground. She looked forward to the tipple of whiskey she indulged in every Sunday evening - what the Archdeacon didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and God had certainly never seemed to mind. 

She swept the floor before the large, stone altar. She sorted out the lost property, which featured a range of items of clothing dating back as far as the 1940s. As evening darkened the sky, she got dressed back into her usual charity shop bought jeans and turtleneck and looked about a bit for the keys. 

It was not a Sunday like any other. 

Just as Clarke found the keys to the church tucked behind the old monstrance somebody had mistakenly donated some years ago, she heard the doors to her small, unassuming church blow wide open. She jumped up from behind the altar, holding the monstrance close to her shoulder in preparation to bash potential invaders over the head with it. She’d had to do _that_ more than once. 

It wasn’t a guy in a black trench coat and fedora holding a pistol. Not this time. 

It was two men, but at first she mistook them for one because firstly, she had turned the lights off and the church was dim, and secondly, one of the men was holding the other in some sort of piggy-back. The bottom one, a middle-aged man with very fair hair and beige-ish clothes and a stream of blood down his cheek, came running into the small space quite urgently, ambling down between the pews with a darker clothed, red-headed individual ensconced there on his back, spindly legs sticking out either side. He too had blood stains about his face and clothes, though no evidence of injury.

“Excuse me. Hello,” the fair-haired man greeted very politely despite the odd circumstances. “So sorry to intrude, I’m sure you just want to get home and put your feet up, but might we ask a favour?”

Reverend Clarke looked the two men up and down, then looked at the open door, then back at them again. Maybe they were mafia types, after all, but they certainly were far more polite than before. And when she looked into the gentle but desperate eyes of the bottommost fellow - what colour even were they? Grey? Hazel? - she felt a sincere need to trust him, even if he was a stranger. Whatever reservations she might have had about the sudden visit melted out of her like warm butter. 

“All right,” she agreed easily, putting down her battered leather handbag. “Do you need me to call the police? I do that a lot. Blasted kids spray painting gonads all over my walls all the time. Had quite enough of it.”

“No thanks,” the red-headed man enjoying the piggy-back said quickly. Clarke looked up at him and realised that he had his eyes closed. 

“No, thank you, but - might you have something, um, relatively unsanctified that I might put my friend here upon for a while? He can’t touch the floor here, you see, he’s … er, you know, very morally bankrupt, very evil, but in a good-hearted kind of a way, and sanctified ground burns at his heels.”

Clarke looked up at the red-head again. He was smirking from ear to ear, certainly an evil-but-not-really kind of smirk in her professional opinion, as if he was contemplating pushing her down some steps to help her with her back problems. She couldn’t say no to such a smirk, could she? She certainly couldn’t say no to the sweet smile offered up by the softer one. She found herself smiling back, nodding. 

“Yeah, yeah, stay right there, handsome, I’ve got just the thing.”

The Reverend bustled off towards the very 1950s organ sat in the corner of the small hall. As she did, she heard the topmost man utter:

“She called you handsome!”

To which the other responded in a harsh whisper:

“Do be quiet, Crowley! Or do you want to stay on my back the entire time?”

“Maybe so! This place smells like a grandad’s slippers.”

“Ssshhh! Or I _will_ drop you!”

“Sure you will. You’re all talk, angel.”

Ah, so that’s how it was, was it? The Church welcomed people from all walks of life. Reverend Clarke had often fought physically to make such ideals true to life in this small corner of hallowed ground. 

Picking up the wide, velvet-cushioned stool, she heaved it over across the hideous bottle-green carpet and then across the stone flooring before the altar. Dropping it down, she patted it and smiled back at the two men.

“Unsanctified. Take a seat.”

They approached, regarding the stool as if it might jump up and bite them. Clarke was sure she had never seen anybody look at a stool in such a way before.

“Um, what makes you say that it’s not, uh, touched by the holy?” The fair-haired man asked so very politely, still smiling despite the touch of distress there in the creases of his eyes. “Surely, it is a marvellous old thing, but …”

“Well, it’s a stool,” Reverend Clarke explained gently, patting it again. “It’s old. It can’t be sanctified, can it? It’s had too many bums on it.”

Crowley groaned quietly, but she ignored it.

“Sit yourself down, love,” Clarke continued, watching gleefully as the tall man known as Crowley was lowered carefully down onto the stool. “There we go! Doesn’t burn at all, does it?”

“Only at my soul,” the red-head complained, folding his long legs. The other one, whose name was still a mystery, put a hand briefly on his companion’s shoulder before allowing it to drop to his front, where it awkwardly fiddled with a button on his waistcoat.

Reverend Clarke was ready to answer any other favours he might have had to ask. Anything at all. If they were being chased by miscreants, she’d run out there herself and give those responsible for hurting them a good telling off. In fact, she readied herself by pushing up the sleeves of her turtleneck, hands balling into fists.

“Right, then,” she growled. “Was it those little bastards with the spray cans? I’ll show them a thing or two.”

“Oh. Oh my, no. We were just in a little accident, that’s all,” the gentle one insisted. His gaze moved back to hers, and he held it with some intensity. “We’re going to be all right. You could leave us to it, actually. We’ll make sure the building is all locked up - but do make sure to take your keys. We won’t need them.”

Definitely mafia, Clarke thought to herself. She hadn’t realised organised crime was so progressive these days. 

“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” the man continued, and indeed, she felt any concerns of hers begin to trickle away into warm contentment. “Everything will be here as you left it. Now, you’d best get a hurry on. The Jubilee line is running behind schedule tonight.”

She didn’t think to ask how he knew what train she would be getting. With a small, dazed smile, the Reverend nodded and went to fetch her handbag and keys. With a sort of fond and warm glance back at the strange pair, the woman easily left her precious church, comforted by the fact that they would be there to protect it from unruly adolescents if need be. And as she ventured out of the door, the latest bright blue representation of gonads mysteriously disappeared from the brick wall as she passed. After that, her trains were perfectly on time. Her walk home was peaceful and uneventful, just how she liked it, and when she got home, her whiskey had a pleasantly sweet aftertaste.

  


* * *

On a limestone island somewhere on the south coast, it was raining.

It hadn’t stopped raining for two years. For Emery Oakes and his wife, Cadence, at least.

He was an assistant teacher at a small primary school the next village over. She was a writer, formerly a journalist, and now very pregnant. 

Cadence’s parents were both musicians, hence the name, though were remarkably disappointed when their one child did not seem to inherit the knack for a stringed instrument, nor a wind instrument, nor even singing. Even the triangle she somehow managed to play out of time. Despondent with her supposed lack of talent, Cadence ran away from home and lodged with mediums and fortune tellers for a while, though ended up leaving there, too, when more than one of them told her that something about her soul invited bad luck.

She took control of her own future. She became a writer and sought all the wretched, tortured souls that haunted the country, her intention being to help them on their way to wherever the train of life terminated. She thought she might retire to Scotland, one day, but somehow she had gotten married and ended up on a wet, spooky island on the coast, instead. She wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

Emery hadn’t had such an interesting life, though he didn’t know any better. The only time he had ever set foot off the island was when his daughter was born, and even then he knew his old father would be rolling in his grave at the idea of his son mingling with ‘damned northerners and grockles’. He had been a distant kind of father, probably because Emery had weirded him out a little bit. Emery weirded out most people. 

He could see dead people. 

He hadn’t realised until he was about fifteen, when he had gone into the post office and remarked politely on his neighbour Mrs Mitcham’s nice new dress, only for the cashier to inform him that Mrs Mitcham had actually been dead for twenty-one years to the day. It had answered his thoughts of why the older lady had seemed so quiet and downcast all the time, though raised so many other questions that he didn’t really know where to begin. So he didn’t begin. He just carried on, like usual, but strange things followed him as if he were a beacon of some sort. 

He put it down to the island. The island was weird. The people were weird. Weird things just happened and nobody batted an eye.

It had worked in his favour, actually, as a sort of conversation starter with his now wife, who had visited the island a decade ago to research what she called ‘spooky shenanigans’. She had happened to pass him by near a reportedly haunted beach and saw him having a conversation with the ghost of a pirate smuggler. All she saw, of course, was a man talking to a dilapidated old gravestone by the ruins of an ancient church.

Even the ghostly smuggler blushed upon seing the chemistry between the pair, and he had floated off without another word. 

They had married in a small church in Fortune’s Well some two years later, and their daughter, Hope, was born a month or so after that. It had felt as though the sun could never stop shining down upon them. There on that strange island, their family was happy and safe and absolutely nothing could happen to tear down what they had built. 

Until it did happen. 

It was quick. Unexpected.

Heartbreaking.

Cadence blamed herself, believing her innate bad luck to have been the cause. 

Emery blamed himself for turning away for ten seconds. 

Two years after It happened, Emery and Cadence stood together underneath an umbrella, silently gazing upon a small gravestone outside of the church in Fortune’s Well. White lilies flourished before the stark marble, dancing gently as the rain fell upon their soft petals. A round angel in flight blowing a trumpet was carved onto the stone. 

It hurt, but Hope had never truly left. 

In fact, she was stood right there beside them. Emery could see her, but Cadence could not. 

“Is she here?” Cadence asked quietly after some time.

Her fingers held the swell of her belly. It hadn’t meant to happen again, not yet, but it had. 

“Yeah,” Emery replied, glancing down at the ghostly visage of their first-born. The girl just smiled sweetly up at him, glowing a faint blue colour against the dull, grey grass. “Yeah, she’s right here.”

There were a few minutes more of a contemplative and sad silence. 

“Do you think-“ Cadence began, and then her voice caught. Her husband quickly put his arm around her waist. “Do you think there is a reason why she hasn’t moved on?”

“Don’t know,” Emery murmured thickly. “She doesn’t know, either. Said she went everywhere, all the way to the lighthouse to try and find whoever was meant to take her, but nobody showed up.”

“Do you think she’ll mind if - her room … we need to - for her baby brother …”

Emery glanced down at Hope, who smiled and shook her head.

“She said she doesn’t mind.”

The pair pressed together underneath the umbrella as the heavy ache to their hearts only became all the heavier. 

  


* * *

We move on to Problem Three, who had actually been a part of the equation far longer than most realised. 

Like Problem Two, Problem Three was an angel. Or a demon, more precisely, though she certainly used to be an angel, way back when. Once a Dominion, she favoured herself to be something awe-inspiring and powerful still to this day, even if her beauty and her sceptre had long since been removed. She was strong in her own way, now, vengefulness and all, and not in a way that Heaven _told_ her to be strong. 

She thought of the War every day. 

She had only questioned her role in things. She had questioned the fact her name was not sung in reverence by the Heavenly Choirs, despite her role in keeping the lesser angels in line and doing their jobs. And even when half of the lesser angels were falling _out_ of line, she had worked to beat them back with her sword and holy vengeance. She had taken pleasure in ruining them, because it was what they had deserved. She had only been enacting God’s own will. In her wake she left a trail of extinction, bodies of fallen angels soaking back into the very abyss they had walked from in the Beginning.

And then her wings, bright and resplendent, had changed colour. The vacuum of space opened up beneath her feet and swallowed her up and then she was Falling, down, down through the atmosphere of a young planet still in the throes of Creation. She Fell straight into the maw of a dying volcano that choked up blackened lava, and she soaked it all into her ruined body, screaming. 

But she had not Fallen without a fight. 

At some point, her sword had turned from her foes to her friends. It didn’t matter. They were all the same, after all - they weren’t perfect. They weren’t _her._

Five platoons of angels had been in her charge. Only one of them remained. She remembered how these one-thousand lesser angels regarded her explosive, impressive, _inspiring_ Celestial form with absolute fear. The orb of light at the pommel of her sword, which shone like a supernova, shot out killed several of them dead, bouncing here and there as she laughed condescendingly. Maybe _this_ was what her role was. Cleansing the useless away from the Universe until all that was left was beauty.

The orb was struck back at her by a flaming sword. 

Marchosias shook the galaxy with a scream that tore the very stars in half. 

A gaping hole was left in her midriff. It was not enough to kill her but certainly to hinder her as that final platoon surged forwards and bound her wings and her arms to her sides with golden ropes. Those ropes shouldn’t have burnt - should they?

She remembered being pulled to face the leader of the platoon. Aziraphale, Angel of the Flaming Sword and one of the first four Principalities to have been Created by God. His armour was stained with scorch marks, his long, star-white hair dishevelled, and he might have appeared fearsome if not for the expression of timid concern on his stupid face. The lesser angels made way for him to pass, but he did not hold his bright, flaming sword as if to strike Marchosias. 

“Aziraphale, you have not slain a single angel, you pathetic excuse for a Principality!” The Dominion screeched at him. 

“I have not,” Aziraphale admitted, glancing nervously about his comrades for a moment. Some of them sneered, others rolled their eyes to the High Heavens. 

“Then what have you even been _doing?!_ Tell me, Commander!”

“Well …” the Principality murmured nervously, his wings drawing in to his body, “I’ve been trying to scare them off, mostly, but sometimes I do try to save them, too, if they’re not feeling particularly, um, fighty.”

Marchosias’ golden, flaming eyes narrowed. “Fighty,” she repeated slowly, and several of the lesser angels tittered. “You - you _idiot._ YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A SOLDIER OF GOD!” She then screamed, a great celestial wind threatening to blow the angels away. She tugged at the bonds holding her fast, not noticing the cosmic storm beginning to brew at her feet. “YOU CANNOT SAVE THAT WHICH HAS ALREADY QUESTIONED THE ALMIGHTY! IT IS TOO LATE FOR THEM!”

Any angel with eyes could see the darkness beginning to seep into Marchosias’ wings. Any angel without eyes could certainly feel it. 

Aziraphale was young, in the scheme of things, though while other angels seemed to have been created with everything that they had needed to serve their purpose, he felt that he had a sort of blank space in his mind that needed to be filled with learning. So he learnt and absorbed from his superiors. He learnt not to question, because that was what a good angel did, and he wanted to be a good angel. And now he was learning that it was too late for those who were beginning to Fall. 

They were bad angels.

“All right,” Aziraphale agreed mindlessly. Robotically. “Then it’s rather too late for you.”

He should have struck down Marchosias himself. It was his duty as the most superior angel present.

He didn’t. His eyes were soft as he beheld her.

The Dominion - now demon - remembered how he had turned away and let the others do the dirty work for him, thrusting her into the cosmic storm until she was swallowed whole and sent into a whole new world of pain. 

Now she wore the skin of a black she-wolf. Eternally drying lava oozed from between her teeth, from her nostrils, even the corners of her eyes. She had great, feathered wings and the long, scaled tail of a serpent. Even like this, she was still magnificent. _Beautiful._ A Marquis of Hell in her own right, commander of legions, just as she had been Before. She was due a promotion, soon - or she had been, but that revolting angel, that _idiot_ had ruined everything for her all over again, and she would tear him and that traitorous Crowley apart for everything that they had done! Maybe she didn’t have a sword or glowing orbs of holy power, but she had her teeth. That was all she had ever needed.

Teeth that should have sunk into that Throne when it had appeared somewhere between Oxford and London.

Teeth that should have sunk into Aziraphale when he had shown up to interrupt their battle, distracting her. Marchosias wasn’t sure how the Throne had discorporated her, but it had _hurt._

The massive paws of a wolf pounded across Westminster. The creature’s destination was a small Anglican church tucked between two takeaways. Westminster Abbey would have been the better idea; Marchosias could not have set foot there even if she tried. It meant that the two idiots were desperate. _Scared_. 

Perhaps Aziraphale had finally learnt a thing or two. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Here Comes Revenge by Metallica.
> 
> Sorry for the shorter chapter this time around. Thanks for the kudos and bookmarks so far!


	5. In the Beginning

“It’s the cat, isn’t it?”

Silence followed. On the walls, stained glass angels and even Jesus Christ on His cross gazed down at the pair below. Within the St. Bartholemew’s Anglican Church of London est. 1941, so small and unassuming that Google Maps had it listed as a telephone box, a demon and an angel stood (or sat, respectively) looking at each other within the dimness of the hall. The demon folded his arms and raised an eyebrow expectantly, but the angel merely looked at him with an expression of offence, mouth agape in a small, surprised ‘o’.

“What … what cat? What is the cat? Now, whatever are you talking about, Crowley? I have no idea -“

“Oh, come off it, angel! It’s obvious! Oscar is a Throne! The cat is _the_ Throne! Do I _look_ like an idiot? Didn’t you think I would think it a bit odd you suddenly took in a cat off the streets? You might be an angel but I know you couldn’t bear the thought of it getting its claws all over your books. If push comes to shove, though …”

“Oh, all right!” Aziraphale threw up his hands and sighed, troubled. “Fine! Yes, Oscar the cat is an angel! I - You wouldn’t believe what a disturbance she was causing down here, I had to do _something.”_

Crowley gnawed irritatedly on his tongue for a moment.

“So why the royal Hell didn’t you tell me, eh? Why fight to keep it all a secret? You even lied to me about the cat, said it was a runaway!”

“Well, she is, technically -“

“Aziraphale! We just had demons try to interrogate us! They almost killed you, for Pete’s sake! And you thought something so dangerous was a good idea to keep a secret from _me,_ the only one you’ve been able to tell just about anything for the last, oh, I don’t know, _six-thousand years?!_ You weren’t going to tell me that we were going to be hunted down for that blasted thing? If I’m going to get brutally murdered, I’d rather know what it was for!”

“You’re _not_ \- going to …” the angel attempted, trailing off. Turning away, he seemed to shrink in on himself, hands wrestling agitatedly at his front. “Crowley, I didn’t think -“

“Yeah, yeah, bloody thinking, you’ve never been _any_ good at -“

“- I didn’t think that they would catch on so quickly! I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you, truly I am, I just, well … I didn’t want you thinking any less of me, actually.”

Crowley ran a hand down his face. “What?!”

“You know, for … hiding it away, like it was something - something to be ashamed of.” Aziraphale’s gaze flickered timidly to the Jesus hanging on the wall above the altar, then away again, and Crowley felt a sudden spasm of intense anger. “She hasn’t Fallen. I thought if I just … transformed her and hid her that she might stay out of trouble and avoid it until she comes to her senses -“

“Comes to her -“ Flabbergasted, the demon actually interrupted himself with a peal of furious laughter, completely stunned. His hands ran down his face again, smearing the blood on his cheeks. Now, his anger split two ways, partly towards his idiot friend and partly towards himself for being angry in the first place. His hands flexed. Sniffing tersely, he stared firmly at the big, wooden door directly opposite him, instead. “No. No, I know you. I know why you didn’t tell me, why you didn’t tell _anyone_. You’re not scared she’ll fall. You’re scared _you_ will Fall.”

Aziraphale spun to face him, hands balled indignantly at his sides. 

“I am _not_.”

“You’re terrified of doing the wrong thing. For Satan’s sake! We’ve been on our own side for two years and you still can’t get them out of your head! Let it go, Aziraphale! Everything you do is for the bloody greater good, even when it’s a bad thing! You did it because you didn’t want to see a good thing suffer! Just stop being so _scared_. Please. I hate it, I really do. Don’t be scared of them, and definitely don’t be scared of trusting _me_. You know - you know you can. After all this time.”

The angel’s haughtiness broke fairly quickly. His eyes were moistening, and his features crumpled, though he turned away and did not allow any such weakness to be seen. Emotive as he could be, actual tears were something Crowley was sure he had never seen, not fully, and he wondered just what else could be weighing on his companion’s mind. Before he could ask, Aziraphale’s pale head shook slightly, and he murmured,

“I’m a coward. Truly. You have no idea, Crowley. I’m sure I don’t know how it hasn’t happened yet. But - I really don’t think that I could last five minutes in Hell. It feels as though it could happen at any moment. One moment I’m here, and then -“

“Shut up,” Crowley insisted. His anger was mysteriously vanquished, enough that he was willing to risk the hot coal run across the floor to the other. Rising from the unsanctified stool, he immediately began hopping this way and that as the holy ground seared at his feet, though eventually he reached his destination and put a long arm around his friend’s shoulders, fighting to control his legs. “R-really. Shut it. Ah!”

“It wasn’t just for me,” Aziraphale continued. His eyes had dried by the time he looked down at Crowley’s feet, then back up again. “It’s just, you have shown me that even the good ones Fell, back in the day. I don’t want her - nor anybody else to suffer like you have. Like you _do._ ”

Crowley felt a tender warmth arise within his chest. Sickening.

“I’m not suffering, now,” he said, despite the invisible fire blazing at his ankles. “How can I when I have this -ah! - world to live in? When I’ve got you to enjoy it all with? Shit stuff happened, all right, but it all - _ow_ \- led to what _we’ve_ got. Me n’ you, angel! We’re a team. And don’t make me say such bloody soppiness ever again. Being in a church right now is bad enough.”

They were awfully close. Crowley was sure he saw Aziraphale’s gaze drop down to his mouth for a split second, probably fighting not to highlight the profanity that had spewed from the demon’s lips. 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale murmured quietly. Earnestly. And that was all that was needed. “I do trust you.”

“I know. Let’s figure out this whole Throne thing later. Oh, and you can also tell me how the actual Hell you transformed a _Throne_ into a rancid little cat, awright? ‘Cause I’m dying to hear that story. Only, we’ve got demons on our tail and nowhere to go.”

“Right. Yes, indeed. Sit down, Crowley, there’s a good chap. I fear I know exactly who is coming, given all the howling earlier.”

“Whossat, then?” Crowley asked, shifting away to dance haphazardly back to the wide stool and away from the scorching ground. With some relief did he return to it and quickly fold his legs. “Seems like a royal arsehole already.”

“I do believe that’s a given,” was the Bastard response. “Marchosias, I think. She and I go back a little way, though more recently she was the one sent by Hell to capture the Throne. She failed, quite miserably. Goodness, it’s starting to smell like wet dogs in here, don’t you think?” The church hadn’t exactly smelt like roses in the first place, but the demon silently concurred. “It means she’s close. I do fear that I should have chosen a place a little more, um … robust, than this.”

“You reckon they’re angry enough to breach a church?”

Aziraphale shrugged tightly, obviously trying to look less concerned than he actually was.

“Well, she’s … she might do anything in her power to make me extinct, at this point, but don’t fret,” he added quickly upon seeing Crowley’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline, “I’m just going to have to conveniently put down my ideals for a few moments if we’re to get out of this. After all, it _was_ my doing, and I absolutely will not see you torn down for something that I did.”

Speechless, Crowley watched with dire confusion as his friend reluctantly removed his jacket. Slinging it over his arm, he deftly undid the buttons at his wrists and rolled up his sleeves, and he even loosened his bow-tie a little, paling considerably all the while. 

Crowley was not very good at fighting. It was often assumed differently, maybe because of the way he carried himself and all the confidence that came with it, but he was far more suited to tricking unfavourables into compromising situations, instead. He hadn’t been Created to be a soldier, not in the least. He had been Created to be something more like … an artist. An interior decorator. Maybe even an architect. It was all back when there were no such thing as Spheres and the lines between angels were less defined. He didn’t really know what class of angel he might have been defined as, now, and it didn’t matter.

Right at that moment, what mattered was that he had no idea what he would do if a band of demons broke down the walls and came for them. Maybe he would try to run. Aziraphale, however, didn’t seem to have running away on the itinerary. 

A wolf-like howl suddenly shook the windows. 

It was all becoming very real and all too quickly. 

“Angel,” Crowley ventured carefully, feeling somewhat useless there on the ridiculous piano stool, “you’re not actually thinking about fighting them, are you?”

“Well, why not? You were right, you know: I do know a thing or two about it, even if I’d really rather not.”

“You hate fighting! You don’t even have your sword! Oh, what’re you gonna do, for Pete’s sake, wheel your arms around madly and hope they run into them?!”

Aziraphale scoffed anxiously. “Well, I suppose it’s less like fighting and more like … frightening them away. I’m going to need you to be very careful, my dear.” Turning to the demon, he moved closer and held out his long jacket, his brow creased with worry. “Maybe you should cover yourself with this. And whatever happens, you must _not_ look! Keep your face hidden.”

It was Crowley’s turn to scoff. Taking the coat from Aziraphale, he held it uselessly in his hands. 

“Don’t - don’t look? What’re you on? You think I’m just gonna sit here and not even look to make sure they don’t shank you? What’s the plan, exactly - are you going to strip off? Shall I play a little something on the organ?”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale beseeched, glancing urgently behind him towards the door for a moment. “You mustn’t look, you _mustn’t_. Just listen to me! I’m being completely -“

The dreadful wet dog smell permeating the walls suddenly flooded the place exponentially. It came with a side-serving of dread, too, a neat little demonic defence mechanism to inspire hopelessness before anything had even really happened. Restraining a gag, Crowley felt that dread tug at his heart, and he hissed quietly between his teeth, raising himself up onto his haunches just in case he needed to go leaping to his friend’s aid.

Aziraphale prepared himself, too, turning again to face the door and stepping strategically in front of Crowley. 

There came a stifling silence. Crowley’s breathing felt too loud, so he held it. 

Shadows began to crawl past the faint white light seeping through the small stained glass windows. These shadows were cast onto the walls of the church as they passed, darkened busts of various shapes and sizes. Crowley began to hear the familiar, zombie-like groaning and grumbling of lesser demons.

The door was not dramatically kicked in or exploded away. Instead, it slowly creaked open, swinging in the wind and banging back on its hinges. There was nothing there outside but the rain bouncing off the pavement.

Crowley was almost impressed with the dramatic flair of it all. He had only ever heard of Marchosias by name, never met her despite his years, though could assume quite readily that she was the sort of demon that _loved_ to be remembered. A real drama queen, like many demons were. 

And there she was, stepping into frame. She was kind of tinier than expected. Much tinier, like Beelzebub, but also like Beelzebub, the air of authority and power she held made her seem twice her size. Stood there in the centre of the arched doorway, she placed her clawed hands on her hips and smirked broadly, rain dripping from her ragged suit.

One by one, her demonic colleagues stepped in behind her, taking up most of the pavement and some of the road. They were really making a meal out of it all. Next, they’d be dramatically unveiling their villainous schemes, much like the bad guys in movies did.

“Aziraphale. Crowley,” Marchosias greeted about as musically as her gravelly growl of a voice could possibly get. “I think Lord Lucifer would rather like your heads. Tell me where the Throne is and I’ll consider not using a butter knife to cut ‘em off.”

“The Throne escaped long ago,” Aziraphale lied brazenly. His hands were trembling. “I’m only a Principality, after all. Her power will always be greater than my own whether she is in God’s favour or not. And, no, she didn’t exactly tell me where she was going.”

The demon’s eyes, reflecting the cold light of outside, narrowed into thin, glowing slits. She was still smirking, and it made for something of a harrowing expression. Crowley felt his very blood run cold upon witnessing it, and the urge to just throw something, _anything_ at them all and make a run for it was pulling at him eagerly. But he had to trust Aziraphale, too, who likely had more power than him when it came to ushering off these particular demonic miscreants. Fighting the overwhelming desire to tell them all to _fuck off and die in a sulphur pit,_ he bit his tongue and stayed silent and on edge. 

“Fine. Well, Beelzebub isn’t even too fussed anymore. Seems to think Heaven will be able to find it, and we know what Heaven’s like when they want something. They’ll stoop to _anything_ ,” Marchosias said suggestively, winking. “Our Lord of Flies must know something that we don’t. The Throne will be one of ours. So, I suppose I’m not even really here for that.”

The lesser demons behind her grumbled, but her smirk only broadened. The hair on the back of Crowley’s neck stood on end as he watched, leaning to peer around Aziraphale. He noted the angel taking a very slow step backwards, hands clasping behind his back, though it was all a front; he was really twisting at the golden ring on his little finger, easing it over the knuckle. 

The ring had been there since the Garden of Eden, so there was likely something a little more to it than being a mere fashion accessory. What, however, Crowley had no idea. He reached forwards when the ring was pointedly held in his direction, taking it and quickly slipping it into his inner pocket. Meanwhile, Marchosias was still indulging in her villain speech.

“I’m a demon because of you,” she accused, pointing her wretched finger towards Aziraphale. “You were there, but you didn’t even have the balls to finish the job yourself! All I did was punish those who _deserved_ it. I questioned Her for but one stinking second - and _you,_ you disrupt the Great Plan, you spend all of your time with a demon - give him holy water! You who questioned the End Times and threw us all under the bus, and yet you are still angel? How is that fair? There are demons who did _nothing_ compared to what you have done.”

The angel seemed stunned into silence. Marchosias continued:

“What’re you, God’s little favourite?” She spat, taking a bold step into the church. If she felt any kind of pain, she didn’t show it, though it took her a good couple of seconds to take another. “Does She talk to you every night, Aziraphale? Tell you what a good boy you are while the rest of us languish in Hell? There is nobody who deserves Hell more than -“

“Oh, put a sock in it!” Crowley interrupted. “What, do you want us to break out the violins? Bugger off back to Hell where you belong! You’re a demon because of _you,_ no one else can do that!”

“It’s all right, Crowley,” Aziraphale muttered, stretching his neck from side to side. He jittered anxiously - and then his wings, white and iridescent, manifested from his back, their span reaching out across the entire width of the church hall. They raised up and curved forwards slightly, many of the feathers spiking out in a display of intimidation. 

Even more striking was the light that began to shine from him. His wings, his hair, his eyes, all alight with a suggestion of his true self. Crowley could sense that some sort of barrier had been lowered, that dangerous amounts of the holiest of energies were brewing and just waiting to burst forth from a human skin, and it was then he realised just why Aziraphale had wanted him to cover himself - because at that moment it felt as though he was sitting in the afternoon sun, his flesh prickling uncomfortably despite how awestruck he was by the sight of it. 

A sweet scent began to overpower Marchosias’ unpleasant musk. Crowley thought he detected vanilla. Rosemary, too. Some sort of fruity tea. White lilies. Book pages. A fresh, Summer breeze touched at the hair and faces of all beings present. He revelled in it, reluctantly lifting Aziraphale’s jacket to shield himself from the neck down, unable to pull his gaze away. The lesser demons waiting outside of the door, however, took a single look at the angel - and then they all disappeared, one by one in bursts of smoke.

Marchosias only took another step forwards, cackling wickedly. Now that she was closer, Crowley could see a sort of ancient madness in her amber eyes, and her former words irked him a second time. He almost felt bad for her, in a way, to have been ensnared for so long under such a delusion, though convinced himself that any form of pity was simply a result of Aziraphale’s essence seeping about the space. 

“You don’t frighten me,” Marchosias rasped aggressively, forcing herself to take another step. Her lip twitched. “You disgust me. I wish I had killed you and your platoon first. I’d have taken that wretched sword and driven it through your chest, you pathetic, soft little waste of space.”

Something was pacifying Crowley. A warming, soothing effect that kept him curious as opposed to angry. If not, he might have lunged for the wretched demon by then. He recognised that he should have been enraged but could not quite access it, far too distracted by the way the angel lit up the very hall. He was sure he could see flowers beginning to bloom on the walls, but it was getting hard to see anything else at all; the light stung his eyes, and was only getting brighter and brighter. 

_You mustn’t look, you mustn’t._

He couldn’t look away. 

In his peripheral vision, he saw the small form of Marchosias transform into that of something much more monstrous - her true self, a massive, ragged black wolf with teeth as long as hands. It was a clumsy transformation; she was too big for the space she occupied and ended up stumbling into the wooden pews. They snapped and splintered under her hefty weight. 

The she-wolf snarled deafeningly and clambered back to her feet.

And then she lunged wildly, stained teeth flashing. 

Crowley felt a sudden surge of intense panic, his heart jolting as it defied the peaceful force surrounding them. 

Marchosias’ dark and devastating aura seemed to absorb Aziraphale’s light in that moment, but whatever the angel had put on display had only been a warning. In an act of absolute necessity, something just up and walked out of him. 

Everything was suddenly so bright that Crowley curled in on himself, blinded. It was a solar flare. The heart of a star. He longed for the brightness to ebb enough that he would be able to see what stood at the very centre of it, but it was surely impossible. As such, Aziraphale could not be seen as much as he could be felt, and that was … _wonderful_. 

Crowley felt like an entirely different person. Any shadow of sorrow lingering in his heart was banished and the emptiness filled with a gentle but oh so potent warmth that reached in and cradled his very being with a loving, tender grace. It was an armless embrace that reached for his own celestial body, shyly touching at the outskirts. Squinting, Crowley foolishly pulled his hand away from his eyes and tried to find a shape there in that light, anything at all - 

And he saw it, he thought, within the swirling, solar fog. Some sort of vaguely humanoid shape. Wings, perhaps. A halo burning with white fire. The shape turned, and then there was a pair of eyes looking back at him.

They were terrible and beautiful all at once.

Anything Crowley had been feeling suddenly increased tenfold, more than what he was truly capable of. He wasn’t sat on a stool in a church anymore, he was falling. His mind was being pulled from his body and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he _wanted_ to do about it. He could fall eternally within this white pool of sincere love and forgiveness and mercy, allowing it in to finally touch his true form once and for all, swallowing and absorbing it until he could become a part of such glory again. He remembered how it felt to be There in the presence of God Herself, to be surrounded by the most pure adoration, and if he were still attached to his human form he might have fallen to his knees and wept. 

The brilliant white glow separated into billions upon billions of stars. Crowley was there among them, though that had not been his name, then. He was reaching his gloriously powerful hands into them and shaping them into constellations. He painted colour into supernovas and he watched and felt every speck of dust, every particle move into place and form planets and elements. Others were there, too, and he spoke to them in a language he forgot that he had even known. He was surrounded by love in its primordial form, and She was there, too, observing and guiding. He learnt to feel love, too, as he watched other angels being birthed from the cosmos.

The memories started to become less familiar, but they were still cherished. He opened his eyes for the first time. Newborn. So absolutely beloved in Her presence. This was a different time, he knew, a different body, a different life and purpose. This was Aziraphale coming into being. He didn’t know how to create galaxies, but he knew how to love, how to fight in the name of good. 

_Crowley._

An explosion of affection. A supernova. A rainbow of colours swam in every direction, soon fading to a familiar white. Their celestial bodies had merged and he could feel Aziraphale around him, within him, a frantic pulse of energies twisting all over him, pushing forwards, pulling … pulling away?

_CROWLEY!_

The light disappeared. Whatever had been connecting them was violently yanked and stretched until it snapped, and it was like having his innards pulled from his body. Everything was suddenly forced to right itself, to adhere to a shape and presence a human body could reasonably contain, a wad of string being unravelled and then rolled back up into a neat little ball. A shattered crystal being melted back together.

His body suddenly needed to breathe, so he took a sharp breath and it stung. As all that magnificent love was snatched from his very core, he could have cried. How was he supposed to go on without it?

Maybe he was already crying. Something hot and wet was on his cheeks. His stomach was weak with nausea, and his head was absolutely pounding. It was like a particularly awful hangover. With something that sounded embarrassingly like a sob, he blindly reached forwards and took hold of something warm, pulling himself towards it. That warm Thing was pressed against his cheek, it was surrounding him, and he wanted it to never ever let go.

His skin was hot. Too hot, like bad sunburn. Despite his various pains, Crowley found himself not caring, particularly, because his heart was pounding excitedly, not with fear but with an intense love that had been pulled out into the open. It flooded and filled every part of him until he could hardly breathe, tears leaking from his eyes. He could just about make out Aziraphale’s shape above him, and he smiled, using the other’s shoulders to pull himself up and closer.

Their foreheads touched. Crowley laughed, and his wings - when had they shown up? - furled in to surround them, creating a dark bubble that would separate them from the rest of the world. He felt a sigh against his lips, inviting him in yet further … or so he thought -

“Crowley, wake up, now,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice oddly strained. “My God, I thought I had - I thought you were _gone …_ ”

“Mmhmm,” the demon responded lazily, trying to focus on the vague, pale shape before him. He pawed at it, feeling soft skin beneath his palms, and it made his heart alight with a wonderful fondness. “Aziraphale.” The name was like music on his tongue. He was sure he felt the heat of a blush beneath his fingers. “Don’t let me go, now, will you? Let me see you again. Go on.”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale choked. “Think about something else. Your plants.”

Crowley growled. _Bastard_ plants. Why would he ever want to think about them?

Despite himself, he smiled stupidly and tried to push his face forwards, overwhelmed with warm affection.

“Your - your Bentley!”

Crowley stopped. He was suddenly chilled down to his very bones.

“It’s - yes, it’s on, um, fire! It’s burning to death! Oh, dear!”

“WHAT?! NO!”

The demon sprung upright. It was a mistake. His legs were like jelly, and he went flying back to the ground, instead, thudding on a thick and dusty smelling carpet. Worse, the agony of sanctified ground surged up like holy fire through his entire body, as if he had just dived headfirst into a lake of hot coals.

“ARRGHH!” Flapping feebly about like a suffocating fish, Crowley was forced to allow himself to be pulled upright back onto his feet. His wings vanished again. “Where the absolute Hell am I?!” 

“We’re still in the church, dear,” he heard Aziraphale warble weakly from behind him. The angel had his arms wrapped around his middle to hold him up, attempting to drag him off towards the wooden door. “Come on. One, two. One, two. Move your feet, will you?”

Crowley just whined in response. “I can’t! It burns!” That served as a cruel and stark reminder, then, and as if by some miracle, he found the use of his feet and bound like a drunk gazelle towards the door and out into the cooling relief of the rain beyond. “BENTLEY!”

The Bentley was fine. It was still sat there on the other side of the road, entirely unscathed.

Gasping with relief, Crowley dropped down onto the pavement and sat with his feet hanging off the curb, staring at the rain bounce off the tarmac. His mind was spinning a mile a minute. It felt as though he had just travelled millennia within seconds, and then bounced back again. As everything gradually came into focus, he rubbed at his forehead and frowned. 

“Do forgive me,” Aziraphale said, using a miracle to dry the curb before sitting down on it beside his friend. “I had to distract you from - well …”

A red hot wave of embarrassment washed over poor Crowley, who recalled with mortification his behaviour, hugging and butting heads like a cat starved of affection. Not very demon-like, not at all. Confused and even angry at having found himself in such a situation, he absolutely could not look at his companion, not for a second. He huffed and continued staring at the road, instead, suddenly feeling that spontaneous combustion seemed a good way out of this one. 

“Where’s Marchosias?” He asked flatly. There was a long silence following that, though he managed to refrain from looking over.

“Gone,” was the eventual, simple response. Aziraphale’s voice was tight. “I did tell you not to look, Crowley. You really mustn’t do it again. You’re a demon.”

The demon winced inwardly, feeling a stab of hopelessness. It was particularly harsh, now, for his heart had been so filled with the opposite only moments ago that he had forgotten, albeit temporarily, what it even was to feel something remotely negative. He tried to fight the feelings of awe and affection that still rampaged alongside anger, and he didn’t know where to direct any of it.

“I’m a demon,” he echoed before he could even consider his words. There came a familiar, age-old pain within his chest. “I can’t look at something - so beautiful, so incredible as an angel like you … because I’m like _them._ ”

“No, that - that isn’t what I meant. You can’t look at me because it hurts you. You could have gone spiralling off into madness just then, or discorporated entirely and sent back to Hell. Then what would we do? I’d have to go and find my sword again and bring you back.”

Stunned, Crowley gulped and couldn’t help but turn. Aziraphale’s face was paler than usual, and his eyes were frantic, rimmed red.

“You’d really go to Hell to get me back?” 

“Of course I would, dear boy. As if I would just leave you to their - well, you know … I’d have to think of a plan, first, but there is no two ways about it, not really. This world is not our world if you’re not in it.”

A bubble of gratitude swelled within Crowley’s heart. All the love and sweetness and affection that he had been swimming in before, well … that hadn’t all been Aziraphale, had it? Had it just been him, instead? Had it been both of them, forced to mingle and magnify each other’s better emotions? He still had no real idea just what had happened, but he knew that he wouldn’t be adverse to it happening again.

“I wouldn’t have discorporated,” he offered hopefully, eyes moving urgently about the angel’s face. “It felt good. It was -“

“An accident. You’re lucky I could even pull you back out of it.” Aziraphale’s lips pursed, and a layer of moisture built in his eyes, forcing him to blink and look away. “I’m - I’m going to need that holy water back. That flask in your jacket.”

“Sorry?” Genuinely confused, Crowley protectively put a hand over the hard bump close to his heart. “What? Why?”

“Because it’s too dangerous, that’s why!” The angel suddenly snapped. “Now isn’t the time to argue, Crowley! Just give it back to me before something happens and then you’re just _gone,_ like that demon before! You really can’t just carry something like that around!”

At first, Crowley thought that the angel might have actually been Marchosias in disguise. But, no, he knew what his friend’s presence felt like, and it was with great disappointment he acknowledged it wasn’t a trick.

It was a harsh blow, though it was difficult to put a finger on why. Maybe because Aziraphale had just seen into the very core of him and very likely knew everything that he felt, right down into depths even Crowley dared not breach. He had been opened up and exposed and it all seemed to have meant nothing at all. Wounded by the apparent rejection of it all, he slowly produced the flash from his jacket and held it out, feeling as though he was giving a piece of himself away as he did. 

And then it was gone. Crowley turned and stood up before he could even ascertain where the flask went. Curling his arms around himself, he stalked over to the car and angrily unlocked it, yanking the door open so hard that it almost went spinning into the apartment building behind him. 

How utterly, completely embarrassing. Barely able to come to terms with all the repressed emotions that had been dragged out for all to see, he definitely couldn’t deal with Aziraphale’s reaction to it. That bubble of gratitude and hope burst into useless, tiny droplets, soon to evaporate. 

“Cr-Crowley, wait! Please, don’t go! I wasn’t -“

“Yeah, yeah, call me when you bloody well realise that I’m the only person in this entire Universe who has given you _any_ reason to trust them! I’d give you anything you asked, for, angel, anything! If you wanted a spear forged in Hellfire, awright, I’m sure you’d have your reasons for it. But now your angelic selflessness regarding the Throne has gotten us into Hell’s shitbooks, I can’t even have a single drop of Holy Water to protect myself! And I can’t even have - because one second of being yourself means you might Fall, you bastard -”

Distraught, Aziraphale froze and stood there in the middle of the road like a deer caught in headlights. Behind him, through the archway of the small church, the wooden cross hung there over his head. An honest and cruel reminder.

With a sneer, Crowley climbed into the Bentley and fumbled furiously with his phone until he could get the playlist to work. Hands clenching the wheel, he drove off into the rain, leaving a fiery trail of shame and rage in his wake. In his rear view mirror, the pale shape of Aziraphale grew smaller and smaller, and the pain in his chest only grew in response. 

It only took him a minute of reckless driving. One minute, three red lights, and fourteen furious pedestrians.

“Fucksake!” He bellowed, and he violently tugged the wheel, spinning the car in the middle of an intersection somewhere in Westminster to immediately retrace his hasty escape. Wearing an expression of emotional desperation, he sought the road the church occupied, though in his frenzy it took him longer to find it than it had to run from it. When he finally found it, the Bentley screeched around the corner.

Only to find it empty. 

The car parked haphazardly. Lunging himself out, he ran to the church door and pulled at it, only to find it locked. Everything was back to how it had been. No flowers, no sweet aroma, no faint wet-dog-musk. No angel. As if nothing had even happened at all.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called, suddenly feeling very stupid and very, very alone. 

No answer.

Moving sullenly back to the car, he saw the pot of white lilies there in the passenger seat, the pot miracled back together after having broken in the crash. The flowers were silent, waving about a bit in the wind blowing through the car. Crowley slid back inside and looked down at them morosely, a painful ball forming in his throat. 

“What’re _you_ looking at?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Glass in the Park by Alex Turner.


	6. The First Day

If anybody were to, by chance, peer through the letterbox of A.Z. Fell and Co. Antiquarian and Unusual Books, they would be surprised to see a very flustered angel turning this way and that about the shop floor, small ornaments bouncing to the floorboards as they were knocked off their respective shelves by large wings. 

Aziraphale spun a third time, peering as far as he could over his shoulder down at his right wing, trying to find something that might have suggested things were not as they should have been, even if it was just the smallest speck of corruption among the pearly sheen. There was nothing, nothing at all, so he checked again. And again.

The bookshop, apparently, was shut down for repairs. That was what the very neatly written new sign on the door said, anyway. There was even a spell guarding the door and windows, now, too, one that would deter any potential thieves or other unsavoury, unrighteousness individuals from entering and removing anything that was not theirs. If Aziraphale could not have his own dear, precious collection, then nobody would. Not even a museum.

There was no time for much else. 

He had drawn the curtains and blinds for what felt like the last time before inspecting himself. The whimsical and cluttered space was cast into a dimness that should have been comforting, but for the first time since its inception, even the bookshop could do nothing to ease the terrible, terrible ache in his chest. Standing still there in the very centre of it all, the angel cast a pained, grieving gaze slowly around, taking in his old friends, his compatriots. His escape. 

He had it all memorised. He knew where everything was, even if anybody else could find no order to it whatsoever. He had known many of the writers personally, throughout time. As a Principality, it was part of his job to inspire such things, wasn’t it? And he had done his utmost to protect the results. His very best. Books couldn’t look him with horrid betrayal, now, and even if they could, they wouldn’t.

They were safe.

Aziraphale covered his face with his hands as a surge of melancholy shook him with a grotesque sob. He still hadn’t gotten used to all of humanities’ strange biology, because he wasn’t human. He wasn’t supposed to cry because there was no need for it. All he was there to do was his job. It was important that he remembered that, especially now, even if he didn’t believe for one minute that was _all_ an angel was supposed to do.

Lowering his hands, he took a shaky breath. If Heaven was coming, he had to be ready. They were never late. They never clocked in and they never clocked out. They were eternally vigilant with the whole time-keeping thing, as one might expect.

The bookshop was covered, but he didn’t feel entirely good about it. He wasn’t feeling entirely good generally, in fact: everything that had ever meant anything was slipping away, and it was all happening far too quickly for him to properly process. In the time that he had, he knew that there was only really one thing left that he had to do.

Taking a small key from the outstretched hands of a Virgin Mary statue guarding a pile of first edition Thomas Hardy on his desk, he knelt down by the old, leather chair and opened a secretive cupboard there at the desk’s base. Reaching inside, he pressed a series of numbers on the lock of the heavy safe within and opened it, revealing two neat rows of tartan flasks. There were eight altogether, down from ten. He just had to make sure they were still there. 

Locking it all back up, he frantically searched the desk for his mobile phone. Up high on a bookshelf in a shadowed corner of the room, he saw a pair of golden eyes watching him unblinkingly.

After finding the phone, he held it nervously to his chest and slowly approached the humming animal observing from up high. He could make out the vague shape of a cat, there, but her eyes may as well have been glowing within the darkness. Bright gold and beautiful and probably scared, too.

“Listen closely, now,” Aziraphale said unsurely, hands tightening anxiously around the phone. “It seems as though the spell is wearing off, so you’ll be - well, you won’t have to hide, soon, if you don’t want to. But, um, that’s the thing about choice, isn’t it? We’re not used to it, you and I. We had decisions made for us, or … or we just knew what to do, because it’s in our cosmic code, or something like that. With choice comes power. Freedom, one might say. We have the power to do the right thing, and - and when it comes to the right thing, I tend to go by what is best for humanity. They’re my charge, you see. They’re …” The angel paused and swallowed, forcing himself to look back up at the glowing, feline eyes. “They’re not like us. They need guiding and protecting. It hurts them to see your true self, so - you can’t, you must hide it, but … yes, that’s for you to decide. It’s for you to decide whether you stay with Heaven or if you Fall, too, and - I think the right thing to do is what will make you happy, my dear. To be able to choose … I think that is something beautiful, if terrifying.” 

His voice had increased in pitch somewhat, embarrassingly. Holy Water spilt slowly from the inner corners of his eyes, trailing down the soft lines of his face. 

“Listen to me, prattling on,” he muttered defeatedly. “It’s easy to go on about choice when you’re the only one that seems to believe in it. Aside from - Crowley, my dear Crowley, he has always believed, thousands of years before I did. You’ll like him, I think. He’s the smart one. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

The cat had stopped humming threateningly and instead sat up there on the bookshelf, silent as God Herself. 

Aziraphale continued, “I do hope that you might forgive me for the, uh, you know …” he gestured loosely up at the animal, “for the transformation. I had a person in mind, not a cat, but I’m rather further down the rung than you are, I think. Whatever the case, it’s soon to be over. If you end up returning to God, maybe you could - maybe you could tell her I said hello. And that I’m sorry for lying about the whole sword business.”

After smiling weakly up at the vague shape of the Throne, he turned slowly away, staring dead-eyed down at the phone in his hands. Finding the contact list, he looked at the only number he had bothered saving to it. Anybody else he needed to call, he used his old rotary phone; the mobile was reserved for Crowley because Crowley had given it to him. Insurance, he’d said. 

There were two numbers, technically. One was Crowley’s home phone and the other was his mobile, but Aziraphale had failed to distinguish them by marking them as such. There were two ‘Crowley’s there to choose from, and he hoped that he’d select the right one, figuring it would be easier to get hold of him via mobile.

His heart was beating a mile a minute. Steeling himself, he dialled the first number and waited impatiently as it rang.

And then he felt it. Something attempting to breach the protective ward around his shop. 

“Come on,” he urged brokenly, listening to the muffled ringing as it went on, and on, and on. Finally -

“ _Yo, Anthony J. Crowley here -“_

“Oh, my God. Thank goodness. Look, I -“

“ _\- probably out or gardening, or getting pissfaced, or everything at once. Leave a message or whatever. BEEEEEP. Off you go.”_

Aziraphale’s heart sank. Closing his eyes, he sat down at his desk and rested his face in his hand, waiting for the actual beep to indicate when it was time to leave a message. Even when he heard it, he couldn’t remember - couldn’t think of what to say, because there hadn’t been any time to really consider it. 

“Crowley,” he managed after a long pause. “It’s me. Obviously. I’m - um, I need you to swing by the shop when you get an opportunity. There is something here for you - insurance. Lots of it. There’s a key on the desk, on the statue, and there’s a safe in the bottom cupboard below. The code to the safe is 1940. That’s 1940, Crowley. Make sure you take all of it, won’t you?” He paused, wincing as he felt another attempt to breach the magical wards. “I won’t be here, you see. Marchosias was right: Heaven are coming for the Throne, too, but they won’t find her. She can make herself sort of invisible in that way, I suppose. Anyway, I - I don’t think that they’re just going to leave me here, so … use the water wisely, please, and l-look after yourself -“

“Hey there, champ.”

Aziraphale dropped the phone. It clattered to the desk noisily. Stomach roiling, he took his hand away from his face and slowly looked up, his blood immediately running cold upon seeing just who had manifested within the sanctity of the bookshop. 

Forcing something of a welcoming smile, he quickly stood up and even waved, completely beside himself with terror.

“Gabriel! What - what a pleasant surprise! And, oh, and Sandalphon, too, how wonderful. How’re … things?”

The two Archangels were stood there impassively with their arms folded. They looked wrong, there, surrounded by books they didn’t care about, dust and white sunlight streaming past the gaps in the curtains onto their pale suits, like they had been superimposed into a place they normally would not bother with. They were too resplendent, and definitely too other-worldly. 

Sandalphon grimaced and began to roam around, sniffing every so often. He was careless as he ran his hands along shelves, knocking off and breaking the various little knick-knacks and toppling piles of books straight onto the floor. Aziraphale winced and clenched his fists at each resultant _thud,_ though kept his gaze carefully on Gabriel, who had found it in himself to smile. 

It was not a comforting kind of smile. It was questionable whether he was even capable of such a thing: he did not look perfectly himself, his hair was not slicked back, even falling into disarray in some parts, and there were dark rings around his violet eyes. His tie was too loose. When he smiled, he showed his teeth. It all just seemed strange. Out of place, even.

“Let’s cut the crap, sweetcheeks,” the Archangel greeted harshly, despite his smile. “Where is it?”

“Where’s - where’s what? The sword? Well, I am afraid I’d have to dig the old thing out -“

“All right, no, shut up,” Gabriel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before returning to his smile. “Gah. So annoying. It’s okay, we can take our time, here. Not like I’m in a hurry to sort out the absolute _clusterfuck_ that is Heaven ever since the whole Apocalypse debacle. But you wouldn’t know a thing about Heaven, anymore, would you?” He looked the Principality up and down, his eyes fixing on his wings, in particular. “And not a black feather in sight. Astounding. Really.”

Aziraphale remained silent, trying to control his breathing. His gaze flickered briefly to Sandalphon, who was staring back at him with a malicious, shark-like grin, his golden teeth gleaming as if with diamonds. He knocked a leather-bound encyclopeadia to the floor and then trod on it, crumpling the old pages beneath his buffed shoe. 

“Did you know, Aziraphale, did you know that - in the Beginning, in _your_ Beginning, I was there with you?” Gabriel continued, speaking as if he was telling a joke over a barbecue. “When you were Created. God took a break after creating the Archangels. When She came back, She said: _Here is Aziraphale,_ and then there you were. She said, _and he shall be a true soldier of the Lord._ There you were, Flaming Sword and all. And She loved you. We all did. Our first Principality, defender of God’s Will.” The Archangel adopted an air of a disappointed parent, then, softly shaking his head. “Now, I’m not one to question God. God is infallible. But I can question _you._ There’s something about you that’s just … wrong. Imperfect. And now I can _finally_ put you under review.”

Another encylopaedia went flying, flopping to the ground. 

“A review,” Aziraphale repeated flatly, fighting not to glare at Sandalphon with all the poison he felt. “I had one, I think, not even two centuries ago.” He’d had one every five-hundred years, in fact. They always came back the same: _Needs Development._

“Not this kind of review. You see, the Archangels have been tasked with doing some pruning. _Everybody’s_ getting a review. Even you, Mister I’m-so-scary-‘cause-I’m-immune-to-Hellfire. We’ll evaluate your entire performance and judge whether you’re able to keep your position. If not, well … But I’ve been thinking, Aziraphale. Despite your imperfections, I know your potential. I was there when it came into Being, remember? All you need to do is give us the Throne. Renounce this place and come home. Work hard, keep your head down, and I know there could be a promotion for you somewhere down the line. Doesn’t Archangel Aziraphale have a nice kinda ring to it? Huh? C’mon.”

Flabbergasted, Aziraphale stared at his superior in absolute disbelief, trying to process everything that he had just heard. Gabriel spun his sentences like a shady door-to-door salesman with the complacent smile to match, but whatever he was selling, only a fool would buy into it. Aziraphale had learnt a lot over the past six-thousand years, and he knew that angels could and would lie if it suited their agenda. He had done it enough himself. 

“Pruning?” He managed, wrung with dismay. “What do you mean - pruning? What are you going to do with the angels that don’t make it? Make them retire?”

He didn’t expect them to laugh at that, but laugh they did. Loudly. Something was a source of great amusement, clearly. Aziraphale forced a nervous sort of laugh so as not to feel so out of the loop, utterly confused and filled with a sudden sort of existential dread. His skin quickly became clammy as the potential ramifications of the Archangel’s words struck him like bullets. 

“Retire!” Gabriel rasped, wiping away a tear of mirth from underneath his eye. “That’s too good! Perfect, even! Imagine it: angels, retiring! What would they even do all day?”

“Bit of gardening,” Sandalphon suggested, and then positively croaked with amusement, cackling at their little joke. “Bit of, what’s it called, embroidery. Knitting, like all the old humans do.”

“Knitting!”

The pair seemed to find that even funnier, wheezing between themselves like uncles at a wedding. There was something extremely insincere about it all, however. Something far too forced, their smiles not quite reaching their eyes. It was like they were acting more than anything, Aziraphale realised, and he regarded them with a mixture of irritation and sympathy. Something must have happened to push them over the edge, but what?

Before he could ask the question, Sandalphon resumed his search and knocked down a 1793 edition of _The Penance of Hugo_ , and any flicker of sympathy died on the spot. Aziraphale positively saw red, and before he could stop himself, he surged towards Sandalphon with the intention of stopping his careless crusade across the bookshop.

“I really must insist that you stop! Surely you would be able to sense the Throne if they were - _ooooff!_ ”

A fist had burrowed quite rudely into his gut. A favoured move of Sandalphon’s, to be sure. It hurt more than the last time, and Aziraphale found himself significantly winded, hunching over in attempted recovery. Before he could even consider apologising for his transgression, his arm was yanked and he was pulled around and pushed frontways into the nearest bookshelf. His arm was twisted painfully behind his back and - _ouch_ \- the shorter Archangel had one of his wings ensnared, too, pulling it back into an intensely uncomfortable position to keep Aziraphale pinned.

They were no longer laughing. 

“Traitor,” Sandalphon growled close to his ear. “We know what you’ve been up to. Heard it on the grapevine, you know. You’ve been dishing out Holy Water to demons, haven’t you? That’s not allowed. It’s been logged on your record and will be considered during your review, if you even make it that far.”

Aziraphale whimpered into the spine of The Sound of Music. How had that got there? 

“There’s all sorts of stuff on your record, you know. Immune to Hellfire, apparently. Is that right, Aziraphale? Have you gone so native that you’re invincible? A Hellfire-forged dagger recently landed in Heaven’s possession, but it’s not on the books, yet. Just making its way there. No one will notice if it goes missing for a minute or two. Just so we can see if you were really pulling a fast one when you stepped into that vortex.”

He didn’t dare try to fight the other angel off, only turned his head to regard Gabriel, instead, wincing as strong little fingers dug firmly into the topside of his wing. He fought dearly to hide any trace of panic; if he was found to have been lying, then no doubt Hell would find out that Crowley was not actually immune to Holy Water, either. With a beseeching sort of look towards who he considered the more reasonable Archangel (though that wasn’t saying much), he said:

“Gabriel, please, I … I don’t know where the Throne is! I haven’t done anything wrong. Not this time!”

Gabriel just sighed and raised his eyebrows, disappointed. He held out his hands, and in a flash, a dagger wrapped in lilac silk rested there in his palms. The familiar blade was very carefully unwrapped and inspected, its gnarled, black edges cutting through the light as it was turned about a bit. 

“Does _Crowley_ know where it is?” The Archangel asked as he approached, very carefully holding the dagger by the hilt. The silk acted as a barrier between his skin and the cursed metal.

Aziraphale’s heart sank. They had him, now.

“No, he doesn’t,” he murmured weakly, eyes fixed on the dagger. What could he do to stop them visiting the demon, too? Crowley had been through enough already thanks to all this business, and the least Aziraphale could do was leave him in relative peace. Summoning all the courage available to him in that moment, he added hoarsely: “All right. I found it when it came to Earth, but -“

“I _knew_ it,” Sandalphon grumbled. “You little -“

“- but I - I fear that I lost it.”

Gabriel stared at him in intimidating silence. 

“I lost it,” Aziraphale repeated. “I transformed them to stop them from rampaging, but they just ran away and I haven’t seen a trace of them ever since. I suppose you’re planning on giving them the support they need to see the Light again?” He actually suspected the opposite. He had learnt a thing or two over the years after all. That, and he was currently being pinned to the wall by Sandalphon while Gabriel waved an angel-destroying dagger about. “I’ll even help you look for them! I know the Earth better than anyone else in Heaven.”

He thought throwing them a bone might distract them from conjuring up any more nefarious ideas, but while the interrogation had successfully pulled away from Crowley, Gabriel was still holding the dagger as if truly contemplating using it. 

“I know you wouldn’t lie to me, Aziraphale,” the Archangel responded with another smile. “I understand. Things happen. Things we can’t always explain. But I know that you’d probably do something stupid to save your own skin. So, off the record, I’ve gotta test this and make sure you’re still an angel. Otherwise, we’ve got no reason to keep supporting you down here. Comprendé? Then we can talk some more about the Throne. Are you ready, buddy? This might sting a little.”

Horror-struck when the dagger neared his wing, Aziraphale did his utmost not to move, thinking that it might have just been a test. If he tried to fight or run, it would mean he had been lying about being immune to Hellfire. They were angels! Torture or anything of the like was the domain of demons - Hell! Heaven’s very antithesis, their _enemies_. Would they really go as far as to - 

The blade touched his longest primary.

The plume immediately erupted into flame, turning black underneath the bright, unearthly fire.

There went his facade. It had lasted all of two years. It crumbled into darkness as the flame travelled up the now decrepit, pearly white feather.

Aziraphale choked out a wail and thrust himself out of Sandalphon’s hold with an aggressive beat of his wings. Seizing the ruined primary, he steeled himself and pulled it out before the fire could spread to the rest of his feathers. To lose a feather of such size was painful, and he sadly watched it burn into nothingness there on the floor until the flames went out. 

And that was that. Now Heaven knew that they could make him disappear, and he was reminded just how far his own kin would stoop to make that happen.

Head hanging, he did not meet the eyes of the Archangels as they moved to stand either side of him. Their hands gripped his arms in preparation to Travel. 

He did, however, look at his beloved bookshop for a final time, the heart of his corporation feeling as though it might just physically break into two. 

In a flash of holy light, the three angels surged upwards and disappeared. And there on the desk, the mobile phone, Aziraphale’s insurance, was still recording his message. 

* * *

On a table in a dim flat somewhere in London, the red light of an ansaphone flicked on and off. 

Crowley was watching _The Golden Girls_ at deafening volume. Or, well, he wasn’t so much watching as he was staring vacantly at the screen of his television, reciting the script perfectly in his head. He had the entire VHS box set memorised. He was also somewhat drunk.

The demon burped and then turned up the volume. To one side of him was a bottle of red wine that kept refilling whenever it got empty. To the other was a rounders bat he had stolen from a Catholic school for girls sometime in the sixties, when he had been putting temptations into the minds of nuns. (Those nuns had been reprimanded for deciding that black was dull and that hot pink would suit their habits more, though Crowley’s memo back to Hell stated that they had abandoned the church and become members of the Hell’s Angels, instead.) The bat was the closest thing to a weapon he could find while intoxicated.

That and the razor-sharp wit of four mature women sat around a table. He wished the Golden Girls were there to help him. The Golden Girls would know what to do.

But the Golden Girls were not there. He was alone; the only demon on Earth with any sort of sanity to his name, waiting for the others to rush down his door at any moment on the hunt for information he wasn’t willing to give. He supposed they would turn up eventually, once they realised they wouldn’t be able to get Aziraphale to talk unless they brought in the big guns, something like a Demon Prince, the likes of which were usually too busy to deal with most things. 

Aziraphale. Crowley’s last act around him was to call him a bastard. The angel _was_ a bastard, and the demon was still furious with the whole affair, but he really did regret falling prey to another argument and driving off. In the present climate, the two of them were better off together, but they were self-admittedly incompetent, even when it came to protecting themselves, it seemed. There was still a hollow space within him, a spot that Aziraphale had unwittingly created and occupied during the unfortunate _don’t look_ situation, and it made Crowley feel even lonelier than he usually did. Something needed to fit into that space, but nothing ever would. He was a demon. 

He had an entire script of his own memorised, too. A script he would use if Aziraphale tried to call, which he knew he wouldn’t because the angel was far too proud and stubborn to be the first to apologise most of the time. Aziraphale would call and Crowley would inform him quite firmly that he was off partying in Ibiza and having loads of fun without him and that he wouldn’t be back for a while. The reality was that Crowley was sat in a leather armchair, drunk, and definitely not partying, but he had to rub salt in the wound somehow. 

_Partying?!_ Aziraphale would say, haughty and surprised all at once. _Well - well, all right, but do mind yourself over there, won’t you? Maybe when you’re back, we could …_

“I’m here,” Crowley mumbled to himself, picking up his mobile phone and staring at the background picture. It was the photo he had taken of Aziraphale and himself in the Bentley before the outing to the zoo. Well, it wasn’t like he was off taking selfies with any of his demonic colleagues, was it? And the default backgrounds were far too flowery for his taste. “ ‘m fine. Idiot. Stop smiling. Bloody mad at you.” He jabbed a finger accusingly at the phone, then pouted miserably. “Arshe. Arsehole. That’s you. I don’t care.” A pause. “I’m going to Space and you’re not invited.”

He wasn’t going to Space.

He was going to bed, probably. 

Abandoning the armchair, Crowley picked up the beaten old rounders bat and stalked aimlessly to nowhere in particular. He’d find his way to the bedroom eventually. Standing still in the kitchen, he held up the bat and gave it a few experimental swings, drunk enough that he thought he did quite well with it and not realising for some time that he had actually dropped it somewhere between there and the dining room. Muttering to himself, he stumbled back to pick it up, and as he bent over, the world began to spin and he thudded onto the floor face-down, arse-up. 

He didn’t care. He didn’t. Why should he care that an angel probably didn’t actually trust him? It hadn’t hurt in the slightest. Crowley was a demon and demons didn’t care about things like that. Demons didn’t have friends and they didn’t care about trust and they were supposed to encourage lies and betrayal. He didn’t care that he knew, deep down, that Aziraphale had been terrified by the prospect of hurting him. He always had been, ever since the Beginning. 

In a sense, Crowley had betrayed him, too, because he had looked when he wasn’t supposed to. The demon laughed into the carpet. He had _looked_ and invited Aziraphale’s celestial body to mingle with his own, he had seen all the light and love that his friend was composed of. He wondered what the angel must have seen in turn. Something demonic, no doubt. Something demonic and vulnerable in a way no other could see.

Anyway, none of it mattered. Not any more. Crowley was due on the next train bound for Hell and there was no return ticket, not this time. Maybe they wouldn’t use Holy Water but they’d definitely find something else more suited to him, and would likely draw it out for a century or two. Hell might have revelled in betrayal but never beat around the bush when it happened to _them_. What did extinction feel like, exactly? A sort of burning, sizzling pain? Like jumping from the frying pan into the fire? Well, he knew what that was like, already.

Unsteadily righting himself, Crowley used the bat to push himself to his feet. There, on the table in the dining room, was the potted lily plant that had been meant as a not-gift. His snake-like eyes narrowed at it, unfocused. He had purposefully not put it on a windowsill so that it would be devoid of light for a while. Some sort of punishment, he had reckoned. Maybe he could take the bat to it, instead. 

Approaching, he gripped the bat tightly and (after making sure he was actually holding it and hadn’t dropped it at some point) aimed as carefully as a very drunk person could possibly aim, which was about ninety degrees in the wrong direction. It did not come to blows, though; Crowley quickly relented and the weapon fell from his hands. Instead, he ran the pot under a tap for a moment and then put it on the windowsill. Staring almost enviously at the picture-perfect petals, he knew that he could never destroy it like he was meant to.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” he muttered. “Can still destroy the others, though.”

And he turned, intent on heading to the plant room and doing just that.

Something caught his eye before he could indulge in an alcohol induced massacre, however. 

Blearily focusing on the blinking red light of the ansaphone, it took Crowley a moment to realise what it meant. 

The idiot had called him, after all. But he had called the _wrong bloody number._

As quickly as that, Crowley sobered up. 

He strode over to the ansaphone and stared furiously down at it. With a short hiss through his teeth, he hit the playback button and leaned back against the table, folding his arms across his chest.

“ _You have - ONE - new message - from - WORK. New message:_ Crowley, it’s me. Obviously. I’m - um, I need you to swing by the shop when you get an opportunity …”

The sheer relief he felt upon hearing Aziraphale’s voice was indescribable. So the angel hadn’t just been sucked back up to Heaven when Crowley had left. He had gone home. Listening intently, the demon began to grow more and more concerned as the message went on. Something about more insurance, and then something that was beginning to sound like an awfully indirect and drawn out _goodbye_. 

That cavernous space in Crowley’s chest seemed to expand, hollow as a balloon. For a few short seconds, he felt abandoned, but that abandonment was quickly replaced with burning ire; Aziraphale wasn’t leaving by choice, and that sentiment was swiftly confirmed when the angel’s words were abruptly interrupted by a distant greeting and a clattering sound. 

Gabriel. Right. And someone else, he realised. The conversation that transpired was quiet, and some parts of it he couldn’t make out. Some things about Heaven, the Throne, and he was sure he heard his own name mentioned somewhere in there, but what was distinct was the sound of an altercation - and later a pained cry, too, as Aziraphale was confirmed to still be of holy ilk. 

The message continued for some time, but there was only silence to be heard. 

The angel was gone. The bastards had actually taken him back. 

Crowley stood there for some time. His brow was pinched in quiet rage. Suddenly, he didn’t care if demons blasted down his door and came for him, because he knew he would find a way to destroy every single last one of them as painfully as possible. Maybe he’d shove them all through the shredder and use them as fertiliser for his plants. And then he’d find the Archangels and drag them down to Earth and do the same to them, too, for ruining everything. 

It wasn’t fair. 

The demon was fit to explode. His hands clenched tightly, and his eyes were wide-blown, becoming more and more snake-like as the seconds passed. 

_You’d really go to Hell to get me back?_

_Of course I would, dear boy. This world is not our world if you’re not in it._

The way forward was obvious, then. Despite everything.

Finding the rounders bat, Crowley rested it against his shoulder and sauntered towards the front door, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from the mantelpiece as he went. Casting a silent farewell to his flat, he smirked back at all the things he had collected over all his years on Earth and saluted them. Then, he turned on his heels and left. 

The VHS still played in front of the now vacant armchair, fuzzing slightly with overuse. 

On the television screen, Dorothy said:

“They were all buying T-shirts, you know, the ones that say, ‘Today is the first day of the end of your life’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Letting Go by Saint Raymond.


	7. Shnookums

Marchosias woke up in the Quartermaster’s office, which was somewhere between the archiving room and the Seventh Circle of Hell.

Her body burned all over, culminating in the echo of a particularly painful spot at her left temple. Sitting up, she blearily stared down at herself and found that she was not entirely solid, her the edges of her form shifting about like a shoreline. She had been discorporated! Again! The second time within _weeks -_ and by the same good-for-nothing angel that had been a true pain in the backside since the very beginning of time!

She growled and seethed and _cursed_ , attracting the attention of the Quartermaster, who had just been sat playing The Sims on his outdated computer. He quickly turned off his monitor and stood to attention, marching around the other side of the desk so that he could be seen around the piles of unchecked documents and files.

The Quartermaster stomped a hoof and then slid his hands behind his back, glaring with his odd, goat-like eyes down at Marchosias. Behind him, his short, furry little tail wagged in building ire. 

“MAGGOT!” The goat-demon bellowed. “HEURGH. THIS IS THE SECOND TIME IN THREE WEEKS, SOURPUSS. JUST BEGGIN FOR A DISCLIPLINARY, AINCHA? WELL I’M GON’ GIVE IT TO YA!”

Marchosias’ headache returned full force. 

Standing up to her full height, which wasn’t particularly tall, she stared up at the Quartermaster and bared her canine teeth, growling lowly. It was embarrassing that she actually ranked underneath _this_ demon, now. Even more embarrassing was that she had just been discorporated a second time by the angel she despised more than she even despised Heaven itself. The faint memory of a burning ball of light smiting her with lightning replayed itself in her mind, and she snarled, black volcanic sediment beginning to leak from her eyeballs. 

The Quartermaster huffed furiously and yanked open a drawer on a cluttered filing cabinet to begin searching for the relevant disciplinary forms. It’d probably take him an hour or two, and Marchosias really didn’t have that kind of patience. 

So she defenestrated him, straight out of the grimy window. 

It wasn’t too far a fall - nothing that would have her made extinct for insubordination. Peering down, she smirked as she watched the wretched thing bleat like a dying sheep on his way down into the dunes of sand below.

The Desert of Tan Lines stretched on as far as the eye could see into the darkness of Hell. The Quartermaster was forced to hop from hoof to hoof to find his way back into the offices, yelling curses up at Marchosias all the while as smoke poured from his feet at each contact. Unfortunately for him, the entrance was all the way around the other side of Hell’s central structure, so he would be hopping like a fool for quite some time.

With that idiot out of the way, Marchosias exited the office and found the nearest lift. It was filthy and the red lights flickered on and off, a scene from a horror movie more than anything, but that was Hell for you; foul and broken, like the long-forgotten I.T. Department of any corporation building. If Heaven was the business then Hell was the basement where undesirables got demoted and shafted off to whenever times were tough. 

The lift dinged as it reached its destination: the Department of Hellish Proceedings and Execution, the official domain of the big bosses, the Dark Council. The dreaded Council featured the Seven Princes of Hell and their favourite Lords and Dukes, and yes, one technically needed an appointment to visit demons of such importance, but Marchosias didn’t have time for such foolishness. She was too good to require _appointments_ , and they should have known it by now. 

Climbing up stairs that were literally made of toppled filing cabinets and the demonic corporations that had long since perished beneath them, Marchosias ignored the persistent whispers of _go baaack_ and _saaave yourself_ that echoed about the dingy halls. The recording had been broken for at least fifty years; it hiccuped every so often. _Eviiiil HIC awaits!_

“Lord Beelzebub?” She shouted, finding the department mysteriously vacant. Hearing muffled talking from the meeting room across from reception, she briefly knocked on the door and barged her way in.

And immediately regretted it.

Beelzebub was there, seated at the head of the decrepit table in zir dark, elaborate throne. That was fine. Marchosias could deal with Beelzebub any day of the week, just as she could deal with the lesser Princes, who were also present. What she hadn’t expected, however, was to find Satan himself included among the Seven, stood there at the chalkboard.

He was brainstorming ideas onto it. The central circle of the brainstorm said ‘PLAN B’ and even had little devil horns drawn on it. Before Marchosias could read more, He pulled a blind down over the board and glared at her with His black, ancient eyes.

Now, Satan’s preferred form was that of an enormous creature with a crown of horns and leathery wings, the sort of thing humans liked to put on their tapestries back in the day. Today, however, if only for the convenience of fitting into a meeting room that probably hadn’t seen his presence for near on thousands of years, he appeared as a man in a black business suit and neat, dark hair that greyed at the temples. The only suggestion that he was in fact the Prince of Darkness was his eyes, which Marchosias could not look upon for more than a few seconds without feeling as though she was about to shrivel up and perish on the spot. They were black holes that hungered for the matter of the Universe, sucking in the cosmos and its light. 

Fuck.

“My Lords,” she greeted hoarsely. “I was just - I didn’t realise - I’ll just be on my way, now.” She attempted to back out of the room, though found an external force suddenly begin pulling her into the dragon’s den, instead. Some sort of psychic hook in her gut yanked her inside, so she quickly dropped to her knees and hoped it would be enough to placate them. “Forgive me for the intrusion, I was just -“

 _Searching for …_ Satan said, his mouth not moving. His voice sounded within the minds of all present, instead. _Validation. Is that right?_

Marchosias remained silent, the ears of her wolf pelt flattening against her head. 

_You think you want vengeance but, no. You wanted Lord Beelzebub here to tell you what you want to hear: that you are capable and magnificent and that there is no demon alive that can compare. I suppose that all of your failures were actually situations of unfairness towards you, is that right?_

“I …” the lesser demon managed, her eyes widening with hope. “Yeah. _Yeah._ It was - it wasn’t my fault. I don’t think I deserved to be demoted for failing to capture a _Throne,_ my Lord. Even when I was a Dominion, I wouldn’t have been able to -“

_AND YET A PRINCIPALITY MANAGED IT JUST FINE._

It was like a punch to the gut. Suddenly feeling very sick and cold and all manner of uncomfortable things that her corporation-less body reasonably could not have felt, Marchosias unwittingly released a fearful little whine and immediately flushed as a result. She was suddenly very aware that all the Princes of Hell and Satan Himself had their eyes fixed on her, and while she normally would have coveted such attentions, she hadn’t imagined it like _this._

_Unfortunately for you, the time’s come around for your review, Marchosias._

Satan frowned. 

_Meeting adjourned._

The dingy lights in the room flickered, and then He was gone. 

The remaining six Princes: Beelzebub, Leviathan, Abaddon, Mammon, Belphegor, and Asmodeus, glanced at each other before beginning to disappear in bursts of flame, one by one. Marchosias barely had time to get a good look at them before they were gone, leaving behind only Beelzebub, still seated there in zir throne. 

And then Dagon ambled in, holding two filthy cups of coffee. That explained why reception had been left vacant.

“Decaf, m’lord,” they said, looking Marchosias up and down before scurrying over to their Prince’s side. “This one’s been discorporated again. Just got a memo from downstairs. Shall I get the review papers ready, then?”

Beelzebub just looked bored with the entire affair. Ze took a swig from the coffee cup and then stood, and the flies buzzing around zir head moved, too, like an unholy halo of mire. 

“Eurgh. The milk’s fresh,” ze announced, pulling a face. 

Even Marchosias was disappointed with the lack of interest in her punishment. 

Dagon took a whiff of the coffee and snivelled. “Ugh. Sorry, Your Odiousness. I’ll see to it at once.” They held out a hand, assumedly using a miracle to foul the milk. “Howssat?”

“Better. Now you can get the review papers, an’ I want all the lesser demons linin’ up outside this room by nine P.M. on the dot. The other Princes ‘ave gone to get doughnuts; it’s gonna be a long one,” Beelzebub sighed. 

Entirely confused and still somewhat numb following the surprise run-in with Satan, Marchosias watched dumbly from her kneeling position on the crooked floorboards. Rising, she brushed off her knees and then hovered awkwardly, raising a hand in a request to ask a question.

“Whaaaat?” Beelzebub answered languidly, sitting back down into zir throne and kicking zir legs up onto the table. “Speak! Do I look like I’ve got all bloody day?”

“My Lord, I know Heaven is gonna find the Throne for us, but I know I can get rid of another problem of ours, too. The demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale! They’re just running around up there like they did nothing wrong -“

“They’re not,” the Prince corrected dully. “Heaven’s dealin’ with it, like they should. The more intimate details of the deal are for real demons. No offence. You’ve got a review to worry about, anyway.”

“Please! Your Absolute Vileness. Your Wretchedness! I can be there if Heaven fails. I _know_ the angel’s smell. I’d know him anywhere. If you just - if you promote me back to Marquis, I might have a fighting chance against him!”

“I could send any of my current Marquis. Could even send a Lord.”

“BUT THEY DON’T HATE THEM AS I DO!” Marchosias raged, kicking her leg at the chair Asmodeus had been sat on, but the limb just ghosted straight through the metal. Even more annoyed by this, the demon swung this way and that with volcanic anger, pacing. “Crowley betrayed us all! My vengeance is _Hell’s_ vengeance! I’ll find a way to kill him, I will! And the angel - he was there when I Fell, he didn’t try to -“ Stifling herself, she span back to face her superior. “I’ll tear them apart for you!”

Despite Marchosias’ furious, impassioned speech, Beelzebub and Dagon still looked very bored. 

“Whatever,” Beelzebub muttered, taking more interest in the sour coffee in zir hand. “Just means you’re gonna be queuing longer out there. Go and get a new body, then, but you’ve got five days to bring me their headzzz if Heaven messes things up. Don’t make it back for your review and I’ll make ya extinct once and for all.”

Marchosias and Dagon gulped in unison. 

“What happens if we fail our reviews?” The wolf-demon dared ask, inching towards the door. Well, it wasn’t like she was hoping for a support structure to be put in place, but …

“It’s a surprise, innit? But you won’t like it.”

Some minutes later, she was in the lift again, thankfully vacating the upper levels. The further she travelled, the more the fear in her eyes began to diminish to be replaced with wretched determination. _She_ wasn’t going to be met with a surprise punishment. She certainly wasn’t going to be made extinct! She was too good for that - or was it too bad? Whatever the case, she only deserved recognition. Commendations. _Promotions_. 

And all it would take was murder. Well, she had practically invented that, hadn’t she?

With a shaky grin, she did a U-turn and headed down to the weapons lab. 

* * *

“Bloody _reprobates_.” 

Crowley stood on top of the ugly, round rug in Aziraphale’s bookshop that concealed an elaborate prayer circle. The glyphs and Enochian concealed beneath his feet caused him no bother, and neither did the wards he could feel pulsing within the walls of the building. Those wards had not been enough to prevent Archangels from entering, despite that they had not been welcome in the slightest. 

The demon was staring down at a half-burnt feather that was almost as long as himself, abandoned by one of the many bookshelves. Stooping down, he very gently picked it up by the thick, bloodied shaft, and the singed barbs fell away as if they were mere dust, all angelic concentrations destroyed wherever the Hellfire had touched. Frowning, he moved to the desk and laid the remnants of the primary down on it.

He was so angry that he had to hold on to the side of the desk for a moment, gripping the wood so tightly that it creaked between his fingers. Seeing the feather had stoked the flames of the furnace raging within, hot, swirling, and coupled with a deep and primal urge to destroy everything in his near vicinity. He bared his teeth and snarled savagely, only just refraining from heaving the desk straight through the window - and he only resisted because the bookshop and everything within it were so dear to his friend. 

One could have cooked an egg on the demon’s face. Smoke began to seep from underneath his collar and feet, but he waved it off before he set the entire place on fire. 

The thought stung.

Gaze falling to a small Virgin Mary statuette on the desk, Crowley glared at it firmly, then spotted the small key it held in its outstretched hands. Insurance, Aziraphale had said: the key led to a safe which contained multitudes of precious insurance, but it was something that would mean very little in Heaven. He’d save it, then, considering the extremely minute possibility that he might make it out alive to be hounded by demons, instead. 

Now he just had to figure out how to get into the wretched place. 

It would take some serious logistics. Trickery. Coercion. Probably a lot of alcohol. And then there was the whole escape part, too, in which case they would just be followed no matter how grand the escape from Heaven was, inevitably leading back to square one. But he had to do _something._

“This is wrong,” he said to no one in particular, swivelling to face the rest of the bookshop. The weight of Aziraphale’s absence was such that it felt as though he had already been gone for a hundred years. The place seemed so empty and quiet despite the clutter and the busy Soho road outside. There should have been an angel enthusiastically conducting to Mozart as he pottered about the place. “At least it’s not burning down, this time, eh?”

Not literally, anyway. Metaphorically, there was an argument to be had. 

Crowley was about to kneel down and shift the rug to inspect the prayer circle underneath - but then he heard it. A light jingle of a bell.

A godsend, quite literally. Or the route to his demise, depending, but that route was already very much on the cards. What more harm could an angel from the First Sphere do in the scheme of things?

He froze when the big, white cat trotted over to him and began to arch its back against his legs, its tail raised in greeting. It seemed intent on depositing all the hairs it could upon his black trousers, and normally he might have pulled some sort of scary face at it to scare it off, but this wasn’t any old cat. The suggestion was there in its round, golden eyes, which peered too intently at him when the animal sat directly in the centre of the rug.

How did one greet a Throne, exactly? Especially one that looked like it would sprawl on the lap of a James Bond villain. Bright pink collar, to boot. Crowley eyed the cat warily and lightly snapped his fingers, transforming the collar into a harness and lead of the same colour.

“Right, then,” Crowley began, picking up the end of the lead. “I need to hitch a ride to Heaven, if you’d be so kind. Pronto.”

Nothing. The cat just continued to stare up at him, lightly thumping its tail once onto the rug. Crowley’s patience was already fit to burst. With a scowl, he jabbed a finger in the animal’s direction. 

“Look, Shnookums. Whatever’s going on between you and Heaven - I don’t care. What, did God ground you to Earth for a while? Oh, _boo hoo_. You know, some of us were sent plopping down into pools of boiling sulphur for a whole eternity of Godlessness, and your worst problem right now is that you’re a _cat_. Come on! Aziraphale is up there right now for trying to protect you.” He gave the lead a threatening little wag. “He gave everything for you. You must have felt how much he loved this place, right? And you’re just gonna hide here while he’s on the path to getting roasted alive? Is that it?”

Oscar continued to stare unblinkingly, as if Crowley was an insect fluttering helplessly against a window. Her tail thumped again, harder this time. 

“So, take us up there, right now. Come on.” A pause. “What’s it gonna take? Wingardium leviosa? Beam me up, Scotty? I’ll do anything - _anything_ \- if you help me save him from Heaven.” Embarrassingly, Crowley found his voice growing laden with emotion he had managed so far to keep stifled. “Please. _Please._ He just wants to help. That’s - that’s all. This world, without him …” It didn’t bear thinking about. Averting his gaze, he knelt down to be on the same level as the Throne, hoping that the angel might receive it as a gesture of respect, begrudging as it was. “I need to try. Even if its stupid. That’s me. That’s us. I need to _try_.”

He was starting to feel ridiculous as well as impatient. When the cat continued to stare up at him in silence, Crowley forced himself to consider a few options: that A. Aziraphale had lied about the Throne’s location and the cat was really just a cat. That B. The Throne was being an arsehole and toying with him. Or C. That the being had no concept of English or even language and had no idea what was going on. 

He only remembered the Thrones for how they looked, back in the day. He could not remember their purpose, only that they belonged in the same sphere as God Herself and seemed to cling to silence as much as She did. 

Desperate, he sought to try something else, instead. He felt even more ridiculous as he raised his fingers to his temples and attempted to concentrate through the anger roiling in his gut, very tentatively branching out a tendril of his celestial body via means more psychic than physical. Seeking out the Throne’s presence in planes unknown to man, he quickly stumbled across it - and felt immediately like an ant trying to intimidate a mountain. 

The thing was definitely an angel. One so mind-boggling in scope that Crowley was unable to truly comprehend it at all, just as most humans found it difficult to grasp just how tiny they were in comparison to, say, a supermassive black hole. The only thing that stopped him from immediately retreating was the fact he was met with no aggression whatsoever. In fact, what he could sense of this entity crammed impossibly into the body of a common pet was strangely welcoming. 

Their staring match continued, but now they weren’t really looking at each other. 

Crowley felt his mind being prodded curiously in return. He remained frozen, fully aware that this being could kill him with a mere thought, and then it would all be over. Hanging back, he silently fretted as he allowed the being to worm further and further into his celestial consciousness, and he sensed an awareness that was constructed differently to his own. More out of panic than anything, he presented an image of himself waving like an idiot. 

Something in that boundless mountain of angel waved back. Whether it was a genuine greeting or whether Oscar was merely mimicking him like an alien, he had no idea. 

Oscar _._ Aziraphale had really thought it was a good idea to call this grand, celestial concept _Oscar_. 

He felt a puzzlement that wasn’t his own as the Principality was brought back into the equation. So, Crowley presented an image of Aziraphale, this time, along with feelings of (dare he admit it) affection and desperation. Images of Archangels and Hellfire. Images of a world that had lost its only angel, and as a result, its only demon, too. 

That sense of puzzlement only seemed to grow, so the demon attempted the language that had come before all others, instead. 

_Save him, I must,_ he said within that tentative mental link, branching into very rough Enochian he would be embarrassed to know made him sound more like Yoda than a vengeful best friend. _Aziraphale. Friend. Er …. You, run me to Heaven. Protect you, he must have, now toasted … toast … punished. I, me, take home. Do I get a lift? Kind regards, friendly demon._

Oscar blinked slowly and began to purr, kneading at the carpet with her claws.

**C r o w.**

The sound was awful, like an entire orchestra banging at their instruments without skill or rhythm, a belt of asteroids crashing and thundering in the silent depths of Space, a set of bagpipes being used like a trampoline. Crowley physically recoiled, covering his ears with his hands despite that what could loosely be described as a voice had sounded within his own mind.

**C r o w l e y.**

Nails dragging down a chalkboard. Forks scraping aggressively over plates. A piano being dropped from a great height. Stars exploding into life.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he said out loud, pained.

**H e t e g n a l s i e g o n.**

That wasn’t Enochian. It was just gobbledegook. The Throne was throwing vowels and consonants at him as if hoping they would make sense, new to this world as they were. Crowley realised that his eyes were tightly shut, so he dared open them to offer the angel a questioning look, fearfully touching at their mind in an attempt to convey his confusion and desperation. 

“You what?”

**H e t e g n a l s r a e s o l t.**

“I have no idea what you’re -“

**R e s t r u c t u r e.**

He understood that one - the sound of the word, at least, but not the context. Despite that, Crowley felt a wave of chills wash over his skin, all his hairs standing on end. The sound of the word had been like a giant machine grinding, creaking right into his ears, a horrific song from the deepest depths of the cosmos, places even he had never dared go. Wincing as the sound gradually trailed off, the demon moved onto his knees and clasped his hands together, hoping that no one would peer into the cracks in the curtains long enough to see him like this. 

“You owe him this. I just need to make a last stand. Before it’s all over. Please. You could do it with just a snap of your fingers - toes - couldn’t you? You could undo all this. Why won’t you, for God - for Someone’s sake?”

**E r h s t a l r o w d s o t e m.**

**E r h s t a l w r o d s o t m e.**

An agonising pause. The cat’s tail thumped.

**H e r … l a s t … w o r d s … t o … m e.**

Crowley felt cold, as if he had just been force fed ice that was now slipping painfully down his throat and chest. Those words had emerged clearly from the cacophony of bashing harps and trumpets. He didn’t understand what they meant or why they were being said to him, but clearly they were important, or something like a Throne would not have bothered learning English within a minute just to say them. 

He didn’t have time to figure it out. Something he actually gave a damn about was on the line, and he was about to say as such, though was interrupted by the cat suddenly standing and trotting over to the front door. There she remained, looking back at him expectantly and then beginning to paw at it, scratching at the underside. Well, it wasn’t like he had much choice but to follow his quickest potential route into Heaven. 

He opened the door and stepped outside, making sure to miracle it locked again behind him. Oscar headed onto the pavement and across the road, much to the apparent delight of passing onlookers who cooed and aww’d at the fluffy cat in her widdle pink harness. Flushing slightly, Crowley followed her over to the Bentley and picked her up to plop her down in the passenger seat. 

It was all very weird, he acknowledged as he headed back around into the driver’s seat. Sitting down, he considered a moment, and then secured his seatbelt. 

“What now, then?” He asked, though was looking out of the window towards the bookshop. A sort of melancholy seated itself firmly within his heart as he looked at the old building. How many nights had he spent there, drunk out of his mind and laughing inanely alongside his good friend? Would he ever tempt humans inside again just to watch Aziraphale flap anxiously about as they perused his finest books? 

That melancholy turned warm and heavy. 

It was time to face the music. 

Scrolling through his playlist, he settled on something and jammed the key into the ignition, bringing the Bentley to life with a satisfying roar of the engine. The wheels screeched as the vehicle immediately surged off down the street into the perpetual cloud of rain, miraculously bypassing rush hour and squeezing through gaps it couldn’t possibly have squeezed through. And then, much to his alarm, the front of his car began to lift, right off the front two wheels. 

The rear wheels came soon after. The solidity of ground was gone. Any humans there who might have witnessed the spectacle of a flying car had all been conveniently looking at something else, thanks to a quick demonic miracle. Crowley held tightly onto the steering wheel in absolute terror as the roofs of shops sank down below his windows until all he could see were endless stretches of grey clouds and streaks of rain. His stomach lurched. 

“Oh, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” he sang lowly under his breath, pressing himself into the back of his seat. Slowly, his head turned to regard the creature responsible for it all. “Kill the Bentley and you’re done for. You got that?”

Golden eyes blinked back at him. 

And then the Bentley soared into the clouds in a blast of light and fire. 

**R o c k n’ r o l l!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Shot in the Dark by Ozzy Osbourne.


	8. It’s Just Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s a long one! Many thanks to everyone who’s been reading and thanks again for the comments and kudos! This one’s for you guys.

While the Archangels gathered to get ready for the reviews, Aziraphale had been temporarily banished to the stars.

Floating about some two-hundred-thousand light years away from Earth, he would have appeared to a mortal observer as a rogue and mysterious ball of light travelling at gentle speed through a field of interstellar medium. A celestial being capable of angelic comprehension would see a winged entity that looked, well, like Aziraphale, only taller and shinier and endowed with a crown-like halo of white fire. Though he had been rudely pushed out of his corporeal body quite suddenly, he had managed the dignity of a suit: cream and gold, the coat-tails fluttering in the beginnings of solar winds. 

With a golden tether around his ankle that disappeared down into nothingness, Aziraphale felt rather like nothing more than a balloon as he drifted towards a cluster of lesser angels. They were all elevated on scaffolding that surrounded a blackened sphere of dust and chunks of something or other, all of them wearing heavy duty attire and helmets as they worked. Quite by chance, then, he had stumbled across a Heavenly construction site, and curiosity drove him to approach. 

He should have felt an intense pull of gravity from the sphere. He knew that much, though he hadn’t been Created for the purposes of cosmic creation and maintenance; that was the department of the Second Sphere, specifically the Powers. It was strange, then, to see lesser angels walking and flying about the scaffolding with not a single Power in sight, but Aziraphale did not have the authority to question it.

He quickly realised that there was no gravity because the sphere was not rotating. Aziraphale floated about the body of the sphere (much to the surprise of the lesser angels he passed) until he found something promising, a small office situated in a crevice there on the surface. Squeezing his way inside, he found the Foreman sat at a white control unit of divine technology, rubbing his head as he read pages and pages of instructions.

The Foreman looked up, his smudged face falling with surprise as he saw the other angel there. He immediately got to his feet and stood to attention. It was something of a requirement expected of lesser angels whenever they were faced with a more highly ranked being, though Aziraphale had always found it entirely ridiculous.

“Oh, dear boy, there’s really no need for that,” Aziraphale insisted, turning curiously about as much as his wings would allow, gaping at the small office and the holographic images floating about. It was like walking into an episode of, what was it, Star Force? Raising a finger to poke curiously at a hologram replication of the spherical husk they were situated on, he found his finger lighting up wherever it touched it.

“Careful with that, sir,” the Foreman said quickly, waving his hands in warning. The lesser angel quickly tried to clean any trace of dirt from his face and gingerly approached. “It controls nuclear detonators we’ve had to place into the core. It’s a baby star, you see, but it got about as far as gathering its materials until it just sort of stopped.” Looking up at Aziraphale, his brow creased. “What’re they doing sending Principalities into Space?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Right, fair enough. Well, whatever Power looked after this part of Space hasn’t shown up since before the War, so this star here’s been neglected. The Observatory sent us to re-ignite it, instead. Seems a thousand lesser angels can do anything a Power can do,” the Foreman said dryly. “Though we’re having a bit of bother. All this is rather new to us, uh. All this … fusion, nuclear whatever, I don’t know what any of it means, I’ve just got to get the core turning again before the star falls apart.” At some point he had glanced downwards and seemed to notice the golden tether looped around Aziraphale’s ankle. His features relaxed in realisation before he looked back up again, frowning. “Did they send you here as a punishment?”

“No, no, it was just an error, I’m sure. I’ve been temporarily banished while they get ready for my review,” Aziraphale explained, and he laughed nervously, though his pained smile was quick to fall. “Fascinating, though - this star business. I’m sure that you’ll get it burning again in no time at all.”

The Foreman’s eyes lit up. “You think so? I’m desperate. If I get it working, I’ll pass my review with flying colours. Maybe then they’ll keep me up here instead of doing paperwork like some kind of drone. Or - well, I suppose paperwork is better than the alternative. Y’know. Falling.”

Aziraphale froze, the flaming, murky silver of his eyes widening. 

That couldn’t be real. Could it?

The shock on his face must have been evident; the Foreman peered sympathetically at him after taking another look at the golden tether. 

“You got the memo, right?”

“I haven’t really been in the Third Sphere’s good graces enough for the past two years, I suppose. Do you mean to say -“

“That the Archangels have lost it. That’s right. Any angel that doesn’t pass their review is being, uh, made redundant. That is to say, sent plummeting down to Earth to be forgotten about.”

The Principality gaped in horror. So that was why he hadn’t been callously murdered there in his own bookshop with that hell blade! The Archangels had a final plan for him, it seemed: to meet a fate arguably worse than extinction, because there was no possible way that he, Aziraphale, recognised by Management as being the most inept and frustrating of all current angels, was going to be allowed to keep his position. How was a forced Falling even possible?

The thought of Falling had truly terrified him since the War.

If he were wearing his corporeal body in that moment, he’d feel sick and sweaty and all sorts of horrible. As it were, he hung there as the dreadful prospects took turns in tearing into him. 

They would make him _Fall._ Him! How could they when he still loved God with all his heart? What would even happen? Would he Fall into the bowels of Hell? Would he Fall to Earth and be dragged into a great, fiery maw by demonic imps with pitchforks? What would it even feel like to be a demon? To exist without God’s love there in his heart where it belonged?

He wouldn’t survive. He wouldn’t. He knew that some _hadn’t_ , in the past. He wasn’t strong like Crowley, he was …

Soft, he remembered with some disappointment. Created to be a warrior and a forge of knowledge and inspiration, but he hadn’t even been able to do that. It was no wonder he would be the first. The Archangels were right: Aziraphale, Principality, was ridiculous. _Wrong_. And when he inevitably perished in Hell, he would never see his bookshop again. He would never see London. He would never see -

“Hydrogen!” The Foreman yelled suddenly, smacking his forehead with his palm. The lesser angel positively yelped and made a beeline back to his control unit, slamming various buttons and silver levers with excitement. “Oh, I’m an idiot! How could I forget something so important? Now I know why they sent a Principality. Divine inspiration! All right, here we go!” He grabbed the stem of a microphone and hit his fist on the button. “Angels, we’ve got it! FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

Aziraphale quickly followed the other angel out of the little office and up into the darkness of Space. A thousand others were soaring up and away, too, dropping their tools and hard hats to find a good viewing spot a safe distance away. The Foreman found a nice comet that was passing by the stellar neighbourhood and sat himself upon it, brushing away the chunks of burning ice. With a grin, he pointed at the star they had left behind and Aziraphale turned. 

The star ignited, devastating reactions bursting from the core within as it began to rotate. It started off red, then gradually became brighter and brighter until it lit up that pocket of the cosmos, displaying an array of planets and moons that had, until now, been wandering without direction. The lesser angels cheered, all of them beaming from ear to ear, and it was a strange sight to see. Usually they were hunched over desks or photocopying documents on behalf of those who were too important to do such menial work. 

And yet they had ignited a star.

A quiet thought appeared in Aziraphale’s nervous but clever mind, clicking to life like a lightbulb, but it was tucked away until he needed it. 

With a relieved smile, the Foreman wiped his brow and leaned back on his hands, cheerfully soaring past the young star there on his little comet. He was going to be alright. He’d get a promotion to archangel for this (lower case ‘a’, the superior kind of lesser angel). About to thank the odd Principality for his sudden but welcome appearance in deep Space, he turned to look at him, and then frowned. 

Angels couldn’t cry, not without a biological body, and yet the other had somehow managed it. Silvery droplets leaked from the corners of his flaming eyes, and an uncharacteristic aura of melancholy flooded from the poor thing. Speechless, the Foreman watched the Principality sit on the comet and curl into himself, affected by the waves of potent devastation so much so that he felt something like moisture building in his own eyes. He imagined being in the position of facing Falling or even death, and his body began to hurt on the inside. That was when the Foreman learned what empathy was. 

“Nasty business, these reviews,” he admitted unsurely, touching at his chest to try and find a source of the pain there. “I’m sorry. Really. Maybe - look at it this way. This star here would just be a dead husk if not for us, and it’s thanks to God that we’re here, so … Don’t forget about God and She can never really leave you, can She? I don’t think even Archangels can take that away.” He looked back towards the flaming sphere and smiled proudly. “It’s amazing, the things that can happen. Like you appearing here at just the right time. I think that was …” He had glanced back to the Principality. 

Aziraphale was already gone. 

Even a star couldn’t light the darkness that was assuredly coming. A darkness that had, by some cruel impossibility, not emerged from Hell but from Heaven itself. The archangel-to-be whistled lowly at the prospect of the oncoming storm.

“Good luck, buddy,” he said, unheard by anyone.

* * *

While angels celebrated a small victory those thousands of light years away, Aziraphale was being roughly yanked back into the domain of Heaven, a beam of light sucking him in until he all but slammed back into his corporeal form. The poor man was thrown some way down onto his front and he cringed uncomfortably; one was supposed to make the correct preparations and fold themselves neatly into a tiny human body, not just freestyle dive into one and hope for the best, but it seemed he wouldn’t be allowed the time to accommodate himself properly. 

He didn’t have his ring, either. It was still in Crowley’s pocket somewhere down on Earth. The ring had been given to him when he was assigned to Earth after the War to help prevent leakage of angelic and potentially devastating energies from his human body. It was integral, apparently, for angels who would have prolonged contact with humans. Insurance. Aziraphale had never taken off his ring, so accidental pile-ups or freak weather had not occurred under his influence. So he hoped.

Before he could even come to terms with where he was, Aziraphale found himself being pulled up to his feet. Right. Heaven. He had his body back: that was good. However, his hands were chained at his front by heavy manacles. That was bad. As his vision gained clarity, he looked either side of him and found himself flanked by lesser angels that were armed with weapons. 

An egotistical part of him enjoyed the entire charade in his honour, though he didn’t linger on those thoughts. 

Looking down, he took in the archaic appearance of the silver manacles and the Ionic chiton he was dressed in. He was even barefooted. It went without saying that he was considered a criminal in the eyes of Heaven, now, and a dangerous one at that, which did amuse him for a very brief moment. The amusement was secondary to an intense and sickening fear, of course: he was a criminal. A prisoner. For all the years he had somehow avoided Falling for being incompetent and later questioning the Divine Plan, his punishment would shortly be met. 

He had so many questions, he realised, but he doubted that Anybody would answer them.

Something warm dripped onto his foot. Blood, which was currently trailing down the feathers of his damaged wing. Aziraphale could have healed it, the manacles binding him would have allowed that much, but he refused despite how it stung. If the Archangels were going to make a spectacle of him, which he strongly suspected given all the voices he could hear outside of the unfamiliar room, then all would see evidence of what the Archangels had done. 

“Walk,” one of the angels flanking him demanded.

Aziraphale quickly wiped away the errant tears that had manifested on his cheeks and straightened himself up proudly, nose in the air. Without waiting for the others, he headed towards the unassuming white door ahead and opened it to find himself outside of Heaven’s central structure. There were gentle clouds as far as the eye could see creating a world of their own beneath a bright and intimidating stretch of Space. He could see galaxies and supernovas hanging there in the blackness, their pulsing centres watching, always watching. 

Directly ahead, there was an enormous stone structure fashioned after a Roman colosseum, floating on a towering cumulonimbus cloud that was lit up from the inside by the occasional bout of orange lightning. Something about that didn’t look right, not there in the pure sterility of Heaven, at least. 

There were angels there within the fields, too. There was a long queue of them wrapped around the colosseum which spiralled down the cumulonimbus and down onto the shifting planes of clouds below. Others were flying about the sky, while others were sat in small groups, staring fearfully at the big, black screens that had been set up here and there, their purpose no doubt to broadcast whatever was going to happen there within that stone circle. 

Aziraphale felt millions of pairs of eyes turn to him as he was marched out into the open. Paling, he kept his own firmly fixed on the colosseum, wondering if he was going to be made to fight lions or something to prove his worth. That would be so ridiculously behind the times, but ridiculousness was all that wanted to occupy his mind the closer he got to his place of judgement. He imagined himself battling it out with the Archangels with far more skill than he felt he possessed: a hero of angelkind. No, no, he really wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing, and he certainly was no kind of hero. 

All he wanted at that moment was to find a nice restaurant on Earth and enjoy a good meal. That had always made him feel better. Even better was when he had company, almost always in the form of Crowley, at least within the past thirteen years. They had been nigh on inseparable in that time for the greater good. 

The thought of his good friend gave him a little strength. He could hardly behave like a coward, not now. What if Crowley heard about it?

Hoping that the demon was still somewhere safe on Earth, Aziraphale’s features hardened, though the intense fear lingered in his eyes. He was pulled up to the colosseum-like structure and ushered past the long queue through marble, stone tunnels until they reached the very centre of it. 

It was an amphitheatre, not an arena. Angels were seated nervously around the many stone rings. Principalities, as indicated by their pale, glowing hair, had the front most seats, being that they were more highly ranked than the lesser archangels and angels behind them. Some angels sat at the feet or on the shoulders of the great statues that held the structure aloft. Others were watching from the sky, beheld in the light of the Moon as it slowly drifted upwards. 

Within the centre of the amphitheatre was a hole, and within that hole, a hellish tempest swirled and roared. Lightning flashed from its core. Aziraphale peered into the heart of the storm and saw the Earth there at the very bottom, though that fell out of view as he was marched down the stone steps and placed behind the maw, facing a raised platform and a broken eagle lectern. 

The soldiers thundered off to stand by this platform. There was a moment of complete silence, where only the faint rustling of feathers could be heard. Aziraphale stood there for all to see, his hands shaking and a sick feeling bubbling in his belly. He might have passed out if he would not die from the sheer embarrassment of it. 

A soldier stepped forwards and slammed the bottom of his rifle against the ground. 

“All rise for Gabriel, Prince of the Archangels!” He bellowed, causing a stir among the crowd. “And the Archangels, Michael! Uriel! Sandalphon! Sariel! Raguel! Ramiel!”

Heavenly trumpets echoed across the sky. At the last note, seven figures appeared there on the raised platform in a straight line, all dressed in fine, ceremonial suits and with their many wings and sun-like halos on display. None of them smiled, not even Gabriel, who had a smile for every situation. With his lips pressed together and sunken eyes briefly surveying the crowd, he stepped towards the lectern.

“I bid the Third Sphere a kind welcome!” Gabriel greeted, and only then did he smile, though it was something painful to look at. He momentarily glanced up towards the openness of Space. “And to anybody who might be watching, of course. It’s that time of the millennium. Half a year ago, we the Archangels received a message from the Almighty. Our divine bureaucracy needed something of a, well … a shake-up. So, here we are. Diving for pearls. Let’s start with the Principalities, shall we? And, ah, who do we have here?” He said with mock surprise, beaming down at the manacled angel below. “Aziraphale! What a surprise it is to see you in Heaven!”

There was a quiet titter among the audience. Aziraphale clenched his jaw, gazing nervously down at the storming vortex only a few metres ahead of him. 

“Well, we’ll start at the beginning,” Gabriel continued. He held out a hand, and a lesser angel fluttered to him to pass over a rather hefty file. 

Before anything could be read from it, however, something shook the entire amphitheatre.

* * *

This was all very bad. Crowley had only realised how stupid the idea of barging into Heaven was as soon as he had, well, barged his way in.

After plowing through miles of clouds and hailstorms, the Bentley (now somewhat on fire) pulled a DeLorean and disappeared in a flash of lightning. It would have looked pretty cool from the outside, probably, but on the inside, Crowley was coping with smoke and also the sudden onset of holyburn thanks to emerging in whatever pocket of the Universe contained Heaven. At that point he wasn’t even really steering - the car was steering itself or being driven by an unseen force, burning across the white and gently swirling fields and raining chunks of fiery metal down through the clouds.

Not his most graceful entrance, to be sure, though it was about to get a whole lot worse.

He had no idea where they were going. Whatever plans of James Bond-esque espionage he’d had were quite literally going up in smoke. After winding down his window, he stuck his head out and tried to get a good look anything at all.

Heaven looked very different from what he remembered. It seemed emptier, strangely. At the Beginning, angels were free to really do what they wanted, and would spend their days grooming each other or plaiting each other’s hair beside beautiful fountains and gardens. All of that was gone, and no angels roamed the vast complexity of what had since turned into a city.

All of that fell behind quite quickly. The Bentley disappeared and then reappeared in another space, a stretch of clouds and cosmos as far as the eye could see. The car rocketed past angels and sent them spinning cluelessly off into the sky before they could get a closer look. He heard yelps and shrieks and he would have enjoyed the entire affair were he not so terrified. Despite his fear, despite the stupidity of it all, he kept going. 

Just so he wouldn’t feel so alone with it all, he glanced at the Throne.

She was gone. The cat was gone. The window on her side was still shut, so she couldn’t possibly have been sucked out of it. The wretched thing had only gone and _left_ him.

“Bugger,” Crowley said.

And then the Bentley crashed.

Not hard enough to discorporate or injure him, fortunately, which seemed impossible given the speed at which it had been travelling, but he would save any questions for later. Grabbing for the door, he pushed it open and unfolded out onto the marble paving beneath him, coughing and spluttering.

When he looked up, he found thousands of pairs of eyes looking back at him.

The car had pummelled into the feet of a statue, he surmised. A statue that was holding up rings of elaborate stone. In front of him, rows and rows of angels were sat down and staring at him with absolute affront, though it wasn’t difficult to spot Aziraphale among them. His friend was standing right there in the middle beside some nasty, swirly, stormy thing, so Crowley quickly stood up and pushed past several angels to make his way to the stairs. He sauntered down them, cool as a cat despite the dramatic entrance.

“Wazzup, Aziraphale?” He greeted once he reached the bottom of the stairs, taking brief enjoyment in the expression of absolute disbelief on the other’s face. “Thought I’d swing by to lend some moral support.” That was a lie. He had been hoping to break his friend out before anything could happen, though that poorly thought out rescue attempt had not entirely gone to plan in that his Bentley was burning from the engine and what felt like the entirety of Heaven was looking right at him. 

Crowley glanced at the raised platform and stopped walking when he saw seven very radiant and very angry Archangels stood there. 

That hadn’t meant to happen, either. 

“Ngk,” Crowley managed. Just what had he walked in on, exactly?

Aziraphale’s face fell.

The soldiers guarding the Archangels stormed forwards and raised their guns. Nearby, angels shrieked and flew up from their seats to safety. Crowley quickly put his hands behind his head in a show of submission; maybe he was stupid but he wasn’t a fool. Not always, at least. He wasn’t about to walk into open fire, not when there was still maybe, possibly, a way out of all this. Whatever it was. Given the manacles and the presence of the Archangels, it seemed like a trial of some sort. 

The guns changed direction when Aziraphale surged forwards, though the angel was leapt upon by soldiers and pulled back to his original position.

“Crowley! What’re you - you _can’t_ be -“

“I am,” the demon responded assuringly, sounding bolder than he felt. “I’m right here. Thought you could get away from me, did you? Wrong.”

“Enough!” Archangel Michael interrupted, furious. “It’s a demon! Kill the damned thing!”

“No!”

Surprisingly, the refusal had come from Gabriel. 

The bastard was smiling properly, now. 

“I had hoped so much that Aziraphale’s little boyfriend might find a way to be here, and here he is! Why don’t we let him enjoy the show? It would be … quite rude of us to destroy him before it’s even begun,” he laughed. “What do you say, champ? You wanna watch this all unfold as much as I do?” In the manner one might talk to a dog, Gabriel leaned forwards a little and scrunched his nose. “Isn’t this just like the good old times?”

It was only then that Crowley realised just what was going on. This _was_ a sentencing, not unlike what had happened to some angels - demons, more accurately - millennia ago in the aftermath of the War. Those angels had already Fallen. Focusing on the vortex built into the ground, he recognised trace amounts of Hellfire within it, and in that moment he would have happily destroyed the entirety of Heaven and most of its denizens.

All he saw was something that could kill or severely maim a celestial being. The _wrong_ celestial being.

“You evil bastards!” The demon yelled, and he looked desperately between his Bentley and Aziraphale. “Angel! I didn’t fly all the way through the atmosphere just to watch _this._ Let’s make a run for it!”

Much to his alarm, Aziraphale didn’t move. He just looked at him tearfully, head hanging. And he was right. There was nowhere that they could run. There never had been. Whether it was Alpha Centauri or the other end of the Universe, they would have been found eventually and punished for committing the crime of friendship.

Crowley relented as he was seized by four of the soldiers and forced down to his knees. He didn’t take his eyes off his friend, not for one second.

“I’ll think of something, angel. I - I’ll …”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale responded softly, managing a small smile. He blinked, and a tear slipped down his cheek. Crowley thought his heart might split into a billion pieces at the sight of it. 

Their friendship, which had been painstakingly hidden from the likes of Heaven and Hell for over six-thousand years, was suddenly open and there for all to see. Why not? It had stopped being a secret those two years ago, at the end of the world. And now their punishments for consorting with the enemy would finally come to fruition, despite all they had done for the Earth and for God’s Ineffable Plan - speaking of which, if all of _this_ was part of God’s plan, Crowley would somehow find a way into Her sphere and question her like She had never been questioned before. 

He watched uselessly, his power bound by the holiness of Heaven, as his best friend turned back to the Archangels with fearful determination. 

“Eurgh,” Gabriel lamented, as if there was something foul-smelling underneath his nose. “This is ridiculous, Aziraphale, even for you. You betrayed Heaven for this?” The Archangel shook his head and looked down at his lectern, turning some pages with a look of disbelief. “Where were we? Ah, yeah, at the Beginning. Aziraphale, you took command of a platoon during the War, but it says here that your kill count was a grand total of … zero. That can’t be right, can it?”

Aziraphale remained silent, and Gabriel tutted in disappointment.

“You contributed nothing, then. Yet the Lord was merciful enough to give you an esteemed position when the Earth was created as Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I remind the audience that the East of Eden contained the Tree of Knowledge, which was under your care, Aziraphale, was it not? And under your care, the _Serpent_ \- speak of the devil - tempted Eve into indulging in the Fruit. What were you even doing? Were you feeling a bit peckish? Decided to go and pick some dates, did we?”

Crowley imagined murdering Gabriel there where he stood. His heart ached when some members of the audience had the audacity to laugh at their boss’s little joke at Aziraphale’s expense. Snarling, he tried to tug himself free from the grip of the soldiers, but they held him fast. This derogatory display was agonising to watch, and yet his friend seemed oddly calm about the whole thing, stood there alone and looking up at Gabriel with a reluctant patience Crowley knew all too well. 

“That’s not even the half of it,” Aziraphale admitted, much to the utter shock of everyone present. 

Crowley gaped. What was the idiot doing?

Similarly affected, Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Y-yes, I … Actually, yes, during the War I didn’t kill a single rebelling angel. I did save some, though. Only a mere hundred. I shan’t name names. Imagine that?” Aziraphale laughed nervously. “Almost-traitors walking among us, beloved by God. I’m afraid my only regret there is not saving more.” The Principality proudly raised his head. Whatever wounds the Archangels had afflicted since the dawn of time were expertly concealed. “As for Eden, well! Yes, a demon slipped into the Garden under my watch and tempted Eve. And then - if I recall correctly - she became pregnant and they were both banished from Eden by God, though not before I gave them my Flaming Sword. How very wicked of me to give them the means to stay warm and defend themselves.”

The Archangels had been stunned into silence. Crowley’s jaw was hanging open. He was the only one who knew the real story of Eden - until now. If he wasn’t mistaken, Aziraphale actually seemed to be enjoying recounting the truth at long last, his tone having become condescending and irritable as he went on until the only trace of nerves to be seen were his trembling hands. 

“And do you know what I did when God asked where the sword was?” Aziraphale continued, an old anger festering there in his eyes. “I _lied_. To her face! Oh, dear. And yet my wings remained as startlingly white as the time they were Created.”

A murmur arose among the audience. Gabriel’s violet eyes narrowed.

“You mean to say that you gave the humans your Flaming Sword - thus giving them fire? War?” He paused for dramatic effect. “Even death?”

“Oh, no. Well, I didn’t give them Death. That was Azrael’s job. The others, I suppose, yes. Out of necessity. And if it had not been in-line with the Lord’s Plan, I daresay I would have Fallen the moment I passed the sword into Adam’s hands.” 

Aziraphale spread his wings, then, and turned about a bit to give the audience a good view of his perfectly white feathers. One of the wings was stained on the side with the red of blood. 

The quiet murmur among the angels continued, though whether it was talk of assent or disapproval, it was unclear. 

Aziraphale continued:

“And then the charge of Principalities shifted as the human population grew. I suppose Heaven had little need of warriors and knowledge with the War out of the way. I became Heaven’s field agent, being the only Principality remotely willing to spend time among humans and their customs.”

It was then Crowley realised what Aziraphale was doing. Whatever accusations could be thrown at him, he was turning them back onto Heaven itself. It was not a trial of him so much as it was a trial of everybody else. Beneath his sunglasses, the demon’s serpent eyes relaxed with warmth, unable to pull away from the angel and his spread wings. Whatever happened afterwards, at least they would not have gone down without rebuttal. 

In the front rows of the stone seats, the other Principalities glanced at each other uncomfortably. 

“I enjoyed the things that humans created,” Aziraphale said, turning back to address the Archangels. “I enjoy their music. I _adore_ their food and their writings. I learnt more from mankind than I ever learnt from Heaven, and I feel as though I could still learn much more. I ignorantly thought to myself that that was God’s gift to me, the ability to learn and change, but I have come to the realisation that, no, all angels are capable of it, it is only that they were allowed to fester in the stagnancy of this place that they all forgot it.” The callousness in his voice was turning to desperation, now. “The angels are capable of much, much more than paperwork, a-actually. It’s no wonder that no angels have Fallen since the Beginning. They simply haven’t been - haven’t been given the capacity to even think differently to you. And … now look at you, Gabriel. No doubt God has been silent for so long, the moment She sends you a message you’re under immense pressure and don’t know how to interpret it. So it must be that a shake-up means angels must Fall, but not of their own volition. You’ve just taken choice out of the equation entirely. Well, now _you_ have a choice. Don’t you?”

Crowley had never felt more proud in his entire life. The threat of imminent death was worth it for having witnessed Aziraphale finally sticking it to the Man. 

The Archangels, however, did not seem quite as impressed. Gabriel’s eternal smug smile was wiped clean off his face, and Crowley was glad he was not in the direct firing line of that raging, wrathful _glare._ There was a positive frenzy occurring behind those dreadful eyes, an indication that the Prince of Archangels had indeed finally snapped under the pressure. His jaw clenched, then unclenched. And then he smiled again. 

“This is _your_ review, Aziraphale,” he said through his teeth. “Not anybody else’s.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree,” the Principality informed him in the bastard, know-it-all sort of tone he usually reserved for Crowley. “Maybe this really is _your_ review.”

There came another course of whispers from the masses, and that seemed to unhinge Gabriel at long last. The Archangel positively exploded with light, forcing Crowley to wince and look away, though the demon heard the thud of something heavy landing on the ground, and when he chanced a glance up again, he could just about make out a monstrosity there within that raging ball of violet light - six enormous wings and hoops of fire for a halo eternally swirling around each other. Eagle-like talons clenched, threatening to lash out at any moment. 

Crowley had to look away again before he accidentally peered into the Archangel’s eyes. That would spell certain doom. However, he kept Aziraphale in his line of vision at all times and saw his friend take several fearful steps backwards. 

“I HAVE BEEN GUARDING THE THIRD SPHERE SINCE THE VERY DAWN OF TIME!” Gabriel roared, much to the dismay of the audience, many of whom flinched and even flew away in response. “OVER SIX-THOUSAND YEARS OF PUTTING UP WITH _YOU_ AND YOUR ETERNAL QUEST TO BE THE MOST USELESS, WORTHLESS ANGEL TO HAVE EVER BEEN CREATED. MY MERCY ONLY EXTENDS SO FAR, AZIRAPHALE! HOW DARE YOU STAND THERE AND QUESTION _ME_ WHEN ALL I HAVE EVER DONE IS ENACT GOD’S WILL WITHOUT A SINGLE ‘THANK YOU’ OR CHRISTMAS CARD FROM UPPER MANAGEMENT! AND THEY EXPECT _ME_ TO MAKE THE TOUGH DECISIONS AND BE THE ONE TO TELL ANGELS THEY’RE FIRED!”

The fearsome Archangel took another step forwards, careful to avoid the vortex lying dangerously there in the centre of the amphitheatre. 

“AND HOW DARE YOU, AZIRAPHALE, FLAUNT YOUR WINGS WHEN SOME OF US LOST FRIENDS TO HELL FOR MUCH LESS THAN ALL THE THINGS THAT _YOU_ HAVE DONE!”

There came a prickly silence, and then Gabriel returned to his body. He swept his hands back through his hair, and when Michael gingerly tried to put a supportive hand on his shoulder, he batted it away. 

“Do you think I can’t feel it within you?” He continued, gazing down at the fearful Principality below. And then he pointed at Crowley. “Do you think I can’t feel what you feel? That I don’t understand? That I haven’t been entirely merciful? It’s the greatest crime of all, and frankly, you should put it behind you. Slay the demon Crowley, and I will grant you one last mercy, Aziraphale. You can start again with a clean slate if you put an end to the little bastard.”

Fun time was over. None of that had sounded very good at all. 

Coming to terms with what was just said, Crowley bristled. What would the Golden Girls do in this situation? Probably lacerate their foes with the sharpness of their wit and sarcasm.

“Bugger that for a lark,” was all he managed, disappointingly.

One of the soldiers marched forwards and offered his rifle to Aziraphale, who stared at it with utter disbelief instead of taking it. Clearly still shaken following Gabriel’s outburst, he just wrung his hands and stared between the weapon and the Archangels, who gazed expectantly back at him. Meanwhile, Crowley was beginning to sweat somewhat. He felt like a sick old dog that was about to be put down, and was annoyed that that was the way all these Angels saw him. He was the Serpent of Eden, for Pete’s sake! He deserved better than a blessed bullet.

“I … I’m a-afraid I don’t …” Aziraphale stuttered, terrified. “I couldn’t possibly … this demon helped save the Earth, you know, so there’s really - there’s …” The angel huffed and smiled anxiously, taking a couple of steps away from the holy rifle. “I’m not some sort of barbarian.”

“No,” said Uriel flatly as the Archangels stepped forwards in unison. They stopped on the edge of their platform, all seven of them as brilliant as fearsome as the time they were Created. “You’re a coward.”

“Well, I …” Aziraphale spluttered. “I suppose I must be! I can’t kill a demon - not this one. It’s unjust!”

“That isn’t your department,” said Raguel, the Observer of Justice. Stroking his very long beard of starlight, he leaned forwards to glare at the poor Principality. “It’s business, Aziraphale. Now, get on with it. Put that wretched thing out of its misery.”

Crowley winced. “Bit harsh.”

Aziraphale was panicking. He looked at the gun again, then at Crowley, then at the Archangels, taking another step back even though he really had nowhere to go. Crowley watched and silently tried to figure a way out of the situation, but by that point, the concept of escape seemed ridiculous. By the time the angels were finished, there probably wouldn’t even be anything left of him, but he tried not to really think about that.

Bracing himself, he straightened up, feeling the soldiers’ grip on his arms and shoulders tighten all the more. He supposed it wouldn’t be the worst way to go, even if he’d rather it wasn’t such a public affair, but then again, he was the one who had flown his car straight into the statue for all to see. Even better was the fact it would be Aziraphale; he wouldn’t be able to handle any other of these blasted beings doing it, he was sure he’d find some way to feel embarrassment within his extinction. 

To his amazement, Aziraphale remained where he was, fearfully adamant. Shakily, the angel said:

“I will not.”

The audience gasped.

“Come again?” Gabriel enquired ominously. 

“I said - I said no!”

The audience gasped again, louder this time. 

“No!” Aziraphale repeated with more confidence. Desperately turning to face the rows and rows of angels, he continued, “This demon - Crowley - he took a stand against what we were told was right. He dared to think differently at great risk to his own life! If not for him - I -“

“Oh, shut the Hell up!” Gabriel interrupted. “As if we’d really want a complete _failure_ like you working under us again. You may as well be a human. With great pleasure do I find you, Principality Aziraphale, bane of my existence, inept and unfit for duty. I never want to see you or hear your blithering ever again! And your last act within Heaven _will_ be to slay the demon Crowley. That is your _final_ order before you take his place down there among the scum of Hell!”

Crowley truly had no idea what to expect after that, though not once did he consider what was to come: Aziraphale squared his shoulders, took several steps forwards, and then held up both of his middle fingers towards the Archangels.

“I said NO!” Aziraphale returned, wielding his middle fingers as if they were weapons. “GO F… BEGONE AND FUCK YOURSELVES!”

Crowley could have cried.

Maybe he did, just a little bit, if only from the sheer power of his cussing-opposed best friend finally dropping an F-bomb right in front of seven of the holiest individuals in the Heavenly sphere. He could have cried even more when the angel turned to look at him as if for approval, to which Crowley found himself offering as much of a thumbs up as he could manage, given the circumstances. He was unspeakably grateful for the fact Aziraphale was standing up to Heaven for _his_ sake, and he still had not entirely processed that information.

And he wouldn’t really get the chance, either. Not yet.

The Archangels were glowing, so much so that it was difficult to tell one from the other - all except Ramiel, Guide of the Dead, who was stood awkwardly off to one side as if she had no idea what was happening. 

“Love wins,” Aziraphale said, turning back to the audience. “Love is God and this can’t be Her will - it _can’t_ -“

A massive beam of white, holy light streamed into the Principality. Six powerful essences surged into his body and then surrounded his celestial body from within. The Archangels squashed themselves into his corporation and removed his control of it entirely.

Crowley had watched it happen. His face fell. That wasn’t good, not at all. He was fairly certain that most of the vengeful leaders of the Third Sphere had just beamed right into his friend’s body, which could only really mean one thing.

They couldn’t bloody their own hands, could they?

Aziraphale was smothered. As six Archangels fought for control over him, his body stumbled and fell a few times, though eventually he - _they_ \- snatched a sword from one of the soldiers and ambled towards Crowley, the holy blade arcing aloft. The angel’s eyes weren’t his own. Struck with fear, the demon could only look up at his impending doom and wonder if this was what other demons had seen during the War before they were struck down by the deadly Flaming Sword. 

No, he realised. That was exactly what they hadn’t seen. 

And Crowley remembered with absolute wretched certainty that he loved his best friend very much. 

The agony of having a sword shoved through his skull never came. Focusing in the wake of a long, silent pause, he realised that everybody’s attention had been redirected.

Something was above them. Something that had lit up the sky with an eternal blanket of soft, yellow light, like the Sun had drifted in to swap places with the Moon. Crowley knew with absolute certainty that he could not look at whatever had just risen in from the clouds below, though something oddly familiar touched at his mind, muttering his name in a cacophony of guitars being smashed against pavements. 

What the angels could see was something they had not witnessed in thousands of years. 

A sphere-shaped entity the very size of the colosseum itself floated there above them all. Within the boundless light, flaming wheels turned and swirled and orbited each other, each one decorated with thousands of eldritch eyes that stared unblinkingly at the scene below. It was love. Justice. _Everything_. They were nothing more than nativity dolls compared to that monstrous, angelic being. That _Throne_. 

Crowley shielded his eyes and sought Aziraphale, yanking himself from the grip of awestruck soldiers. Aziraphale was gazing up at the Throne. His arm slowly dropped, and the sword fell easily from his hand. 

“Angel,” the demon muttered. He could feel his unholy corporation beginning to burn somewhat in the light. “You there?”

It was his companion there, somehow looking back at him, though Crowley was struck with confusion when the other beheld him with a sort of soft realisation.

Overhead, a Voice blared like a siren:

**R e s t r u c t u r e.**

Rage turned the sky red.

Aziraphale managed a heartbreaking smile despite it all, a stellar wind moving through his blonde curls.

“Heaven is failing, Crowley.” He turned, determined. “I think this is for the greater good.”

“Wait,” Crowley responded, eyes widening. The Archangels had not reappeared; they were trapped, docile within their reluctant host. That host was now moving away at speed - towards the storming vortex in the heart of the amphitheatre. The demon’s heart leapt into his throat. Choking on a sudden explosion of sorrow, he blindly ran forwards and tried to grab his friend’s arm. “Angel! DON’T YOU BLOODY DARE!”

When Aziraphale Fell, Crowley tried to jump in after him. 

Something unseen pulled him back. Flying backwards, the demon landed hard on his side with a furious groan. 

“Aziraphale!” He yelled brokenly, dragging himself to face the vortex. This couldn’t be happening! It wasn’t fair!

The sky darkened. Just like that, Oscar the Throne was gone. 

And so was Aziraphale and six of the Archangels.

* * *

  
“Well, Shoriel, looks like that’s a wrap,” said one of the angelic commentators, just about remembering he had a microphone in front of him.

”You’ve got that right, Diton. Hoo boy!” The other commentator offered nervously. “Looks like the Archangels have hit an all time low.”

Diton sighed. “Too soon, Shoriel. Too soon.”

Outside the amphitheatre, millions of angels looked on in lonely silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons.


	9. Theophany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some quick descriptions of severe injury in this chapter.

Thus sayeth Ramiel, the singular Archangel of Heaven upon witnessing the defeat of her divine siblings:

“Oh, crap.”

The swirling, stormy tempest that had swallowed them whole began to falter. An explosion of angelic light shot right out of the hole, the beam the full spectrum of a rainbow which soared upwards and disappeared into the cold darkness of Space. 

The vortex rumbled and spat furiously as it was overloaded and consequently destroyed from the inside. The monstrosity fell into silence and the chaotic clouds below began to quickly fade away into nothingness, revealing a pure and untroubled picture of Earth there through the heart of the amphitheatre. It was over.

There would be no reviews; the first of them had been the last, much to the quiet relief of the millions of angels watching from their respective offices or from the audience. At the scene itself, nobody quite knew how to react. Perhaps there should have been wailing or melancholy hymns of grief for their Fallen, but there was only silence. The occasional clearing of a throat, or a sigh of solace. 

On the ground, the demon Crowley stood up and straightened his clothes. Ramiel held up a hand to stop the soldiers as they made to seize him. She’d never had a problem with him, personally, for he had only seemed invested in the welfare of a friend and planet. Also, he had cool sunglasses.

Crowley stood perfectly still and straight-faced for a good few seconds, staring at the hole through which said friend had martyred himself. Then, he made a sudden beeline for the still smoking car somewhere on the higher levels of the amphitheatre, pushing aside lesser angels as he went. 

“ _Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!_ OSCAR!” Ramiel heard him bellow in a strangled voice.

She didn’t know who this Oscar was, but the mystery being aided him immediately. No sooner had he all but dived through the broken window of the vehicle, it disappeared in a flash of gold sparkles. 

Now alone and with no idea how to handle the crowd-control aspect of the situation, she peered at the scores of angels that were watching her expectantly. How was she supposed to know what to do? She had never been given real Archangel responsibilities, she was there because none of them had wanted _her_ job. And now she faced having to be all seven of them at once! Well, even a being of elevated status such as herself couldn’t do that!

But something that Principality had said echoed in her frantic thoughts. She had actually been listening, invested more in the drama than in the game of humiliation, and perhaps that was why she hadn’t shared in the thought process of possessing Aziraphale’s corporation. 

There was only one thing for it, then. The lesser angels would have to step up their game, and so would she. 

“Uh -“ Ramiel attempted, her voice breaking slightly. “Um, the reviews are cancelled, everyone! Go back to your duties, please! And I’ll, uh, be getting back to you shortly! I need to have a word with Upstairs!”

The last part was bullshit. As if the First or Second Spheres would have any sort of comment or even advice on the matter. Abruptly climbing down from the platform, Ramiel hurried up to the edge of the amphitheatre and spread her wings, vacating to avoid the crowd. 

As she flew, she considered. The Archangels would be demons, now - at least, that had been the intention of the awful Falling mechanism Gabriel had constructed. There was no helping them, so she could assume. While she figured that part out, the lesser angels would be given the capacity to do more. Some of them would certainly have to take her job, much to her relief. 

And as she flew, her corporation wept for her siblings. 

They weren’t evil. She knew that deep in her heart, even if they often hadn’t truly considered her one of their own, her being the youngest and least experienced of them all. They had been with her at the Beginning, and they had loved her as they had once loved all things, but that love was buried deeper and deeper as the years passed, as pressure mounted, and as the silences between divine Messages became longer and longer. They were lost, and as such resorted to nefarious methods to achieve their goals for what they believed was the greater good. 

Whatever the greater good was, they had long since forgotten it. 

* * *

It was nighttime. A bit chilly for a Summer night, but then again, the rain never did seem to stop.

Emery Oakes was lying back on the bonnet of his car trying to find the stars among the thick clouds. It was always windy enough on the Bill that the low rain clouds never really stayed still. Ahead of him, the lighthouse shone its white beam out into the darkness of the sea, alerting passing ships to the deceiving waves and the high rise of rock underneath. 

It was almost ten. Cadence would be getting worried. 

About to roll off the bonnet, he chanced one last look at the sky. The whole purpose of his visit to the Bill was to help Hope find her guardian angel or Death or whoever it was who took departed souls on to the next life. She had seemed so insistent on floating her way up there that he’d had no choice but to follow, and he did enjoy the view, too, even at night. Being there reminded him of better, sunnier days, flying kites and searching rock pools. 

The apparition of his daughter had since vanished. She did that a lot, tending to fade into the background instead. As his wife always said, Hope was never truly gone. 

A star in the sky suddenly flashed so brightly that he saw it behind the wispy rear of a cloud. Had he just imagined it?

No, it did it again. And then something streaked across the sky - a shooting star! Hardly believing his luck, Emery sat up and watched in amazement as that streak of light dispersed into seven shooting stars. Seven! There must have been a small asteroid breaking up in the atmosphere, he thought, finding himself smiling at the heavens. Six of the seven swift streaks disappeared as normal, but one remained, seeming oddly fixed. Emery’s smile dripped away.

The streak was curving, and it was steadily getting brighter and brighter. 

A white line carved through the sky and then vanished as the object responsible assumedly turned to face the island head on. The thing, brighter than any of the stars in the sky by that point, only seemed intent on growing. There hadn’t been any asteroid warnings on the news, had there? Or maybe it was a falling piece of satellite. He’d heard horror stories about _that._ Quickly clambering off the bonnet, he got back into his car and stared at the Thing through the windshield instead, curiosity stopping him from driving away. It couldn’t possibly be on a direct course for the island! The chances of that were slim to none.

Then again, the island was weird and sometimes it was the bad kind of weird. All Emery had left to witness was aliens, so he thought. Ghosts and whatever other creatures lingered in the unknown he could deal with, but he had seen one too many sci-fi movies featuring flesh-hungry extraterrestrials and the thought terrified him an embarrassing amount. 

The falling object seemed more of an orange kind of hue the closer it got. There was definitely smoke billowing off it in dark streams, only seen against the stars and the moon, and it was getting so bright that it could be seen through the rain clouds as they slowly passed.

And then it cut through the clouds like a white-hot guillotine. It was _definitely_ on a direct course for the island.

“Holy Hell,” Emery cursed, gaping. The object seemed on the verge of striking the sea until it curved again, soaring at impossible speed towards land. His eyes positively popped out of his skull upon seeing that. “Holy Hell, holy _shit,_ oh my God -“

Lightning began to strike the ground out of nowhere. Great, white claps of it smashing down for miles on end. Emery shrieked and patted down his static-infused hair, too terrified to try and make some sort of escape.

And as the lightning continued to strike, the very worst happened. 

The flaming object smashed through the crown of the lighthouse and destroyed it completely. The sound of hundreds of pounds of shattering glass and stone pierced the night sky like thunder, and then again as the enormous bulb smashed into a billion pieces on the ground.

The sea was cast into darkness. 

Emery pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t having a nightmare. Watching the falling object fall yet further and eventually crash some distance away in an impressive explosion of orange and white, he fumbled with his phone and immediately dialled nine-nine-nine, starting up his car and shooting off onto the road. He had seen where the Thing had fallen, it was just a matter of finding out _what_ had just destroyed the precious lighthouse and warning the authorities immediately!

He told them of a falling, flaming something-or-other as he drove out, turning his car out onto a long stretch of field that was now marred by a significant, burning crater. Parking quickly somewhere near the peak of it, Emery immediately began to sweat from the heat emitting from the landing spot as he scrambled out.

“It was, I dunno, maybe a falling satellite! It just went right through the lighthouse! The ships out there could end up crashing and washing up -“

His phone dropped from his hand. 

Something was screaming. Certainly something not of this Earth given the intensity and unnatural pitch. With a gasp, Emery covered his ears and inched closer to the edge of the crater, knowing full well that the screaming was not something based in the reality he knew but instead the ethereal planes that he for some reason could extend his senses to. The being screamed again, the sound threatening to break open the Earth and the sky and everything in-between. 

It wasn’t an alien, he surmised upon seeing a human-like figure curled there in the dirt. Thank God for that. But the creature’s wings - _wings?_ \- were on fire, and the rest of it looked as though it had, well, burnt through the atmosphere and crashed through a lighthouse. 

Emery was a good-hearted kind of person. The kind of person that would immediately take off his jacket and dive down into that burning crater to begin beating at the flames on the Thing’s wings even if he really had no idea what it was or whether it wanted to eat him or not. Maybe he was an idiot for doing exactly that, but he couldn’t deny, even through his gut wrenching fear, that something about it felt very right. 

Panting, he beat down on the feathers until the flames were vanquished and only light smoke poured from the scorched feathers. The creature had stopped screaming on the Other plane and was instead screaming on the human one, instead. They sounded very much like a man, yelling and scrabbling desperately at the broken bones and the horrific burns - and then they fell silent, folding onto their front with their great wings spread.

The fire around them continued to burn. Ash and white feathers were falling down from the dark sky, and all around, a devastating sorrow pervaded everything so strongly that anybody within several miles would have entered an inexplicable state of tearfulness. Fearful dreams stole into the dreams of those who slept.

Overcome with grief and an unbearable awe, Emery dropped to his knees and beheld the man, tears falling down his smoke-stained face. By some miracle, his phone had landed somewhere close by, so he grabbed it and immediately hung up the line to the emergency services, deciding to call his wife instead.

When she answered, she sounded just as devastated as he did.

“Caught me at a bad time, Em -“

“Sorry,” he croaked at once, and there came a frozen pause in response.

“Oh my God, what’s happened? Is it Hope? Did you -“

“It’s an angel,” Emery spluttered, wiping his sleeves over his eyes. “An angel just - An angel! Holy shit! They’ve got wings and everything! What the Hell do I do?! They might be dead!”

Anybody else’s significant other might have just assumed that their partner had finally gone around the bend, but not Cadence. A firm believer and investigator of the paranormal, she had since married an unwitting medium and had received many similar phone calls in the past. She was also very pregnant, otherwise she would have been up and out of that door in an instant.

“How?!” She asked quickly, lifting herself out of her armchair and heading for the window. There was a strange, orange hue to the horizon, as if dawn was already breaking.

“They fell out of the sky. I think -“ Gingerly putting a hand on the angel’s bare, burnt back, he felt the gentle expansion of the rib cage. “Dear God, it - _he’s_ still alive. Do I call an ambulance?!”

“For an angel, Em? It might get kidnapped by the government and experimented on or something!”

“Right, right. Uh -“

“Bring him home. Let’s get him into safety and figure it out from there. I thought - I thought I felt _something_ , just a moment ago, it …” Cadence sniffed slightly. “Is that how you feel all the time?”

“No. Well, depends. Must have been something like a disturbance in the Force. Or something. Holy shit. All right, I need to hang up so I can try and get him in my car. See you in a jiff.”

It was easier said than done. After establishing that the angel wasn’t about to fall apart, he rolled the poor guy over with great difficulty; the wings were heavy and he tried to be careful not to break him even more. Positively dripping with sweat, Emery hooked his elbows under the man’s arms and pulled him up a more shallow slope of the crater.

Worse was getting him into the rear seats of the car. Once the body was in, it was a matter of first figuring out how the wings folded and then shoving one over the seats into the boot. The other was certainly broken and dangled uselessly from one of its joints, so he let that one bend loosely into the passenger seat. 

Surrounded by burnt feathers and an overwhelming smell of smoke and blood, Emery sniffled and wiped the last tear away before sliding into the car and driving off towards the village of Fortune’s Well.

This would be one to tell the grandchildren.

* * *

This definitely was not how the rescue mission was supposed to go. 

Crowley was a demon. He was supposed to be cool. Aloof was his middle name. He should have at least thrown a few balls of Hellfire here and there, but then again, he had been one demon surrounded by thousands of angels that could have demolished him in an instant. Truthfully, he had no idea how he had even gotten out of that little affair alive.

That was not his prime thought, however, as the car reappeared somewhere above the English Channel with Crowley having made it only half-way through the window. He fell heavily onto the passenger seat with his legs still dangling out of the door and yelled his affront, scrabbling for purchase before he could be sucked out into the updrafts. 

In front of him, in the driver’s seat, a cat cleaned its fluffy white paw. 

“YOU!” Crowley bellowed viscerally. Maybe he didn’t look particularly terrifying while hanging arse-first out of a flying car, but he could count on one hand the times he had felt a rage as true as what he felt in that moment. Grabbing for the cat, the creature easily jumped back into the rear seats and avoided his flailing hands. “C’MERE! LITTLE BASTARD! YOU JUST FLOATED THERE AND LET IT HAPPEN! YOU’D BETTER TAKE ME TO HIM RIGHT NOW! THEN I’M TURNING YOU INTO A PAIR OF SLIPPERS, YOU WRETCHED -”

The car turned and purposefully soared through a rain cloud, soaking Crowley’s trousers. With a roar, the demon finally managed to heave himself fully into the ruined vehicle and awkwardly right his long frame into the driver’s seat. Running his hands down his heated face, he leaned back and stared at the world below, his heart pounding a mile a minute. 

Aziraphale had really done that. He had leapt into that - _whatever_ it was and taken the Archangels with him. Now Crowley was free to live another day and Heaven would be forced to rethink its approach to things without the influence of its murder-happy leaders. Had that trace amount of Hellfire Crowley had detected in the vortex been enough to cause a Fall? 

Whatever the case, he had to find the angel before Hell did. 

There was already a cause for concern: he couldn’t sense him.

Crowley had always been able to sort of sense Aziraphale, even when they were miles and miles apart. The Principality had been, ninety-nine percent of the time, the only angel stationed on Earth, so latching onto that source of bona fide holiness and pinning it down had rarely been difficult. It was part of his job to sniff out that sort of thing and do everything he could to thwart it. Not that he ever did much thwarting. 

That light had seemingly gone out, which forced the demon to fear the worst. He didn’t fear anything for his own sake, no indeed, he was sure he could deal with a demonic Aziraphale, though he was more worried about how the angel would fare in such a state. 

Pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, his eyes were the very epitome of _concerned._ This was all rather unfair, he thought, and he swallowed past a painful lump in his throat. In Crowley’s opinion, which he of course perceived as being respectable in such matters, Aziraphale had been the one good thing to have ever come out of Heaven. He had been the only good one. The best of them. And by some cruel, cosmic joke, he would endure the pain he had feared so desperately. 

Unable to see much past the smoke leaking from the engine, he miracled the damage away from the Bentley and gulped upon being subject to the view. Water, dark and churning and lots of it. Within the night, he could make out the dark shape of land, a tall shape emerging from the sea in the form of an island with a few collections of settlements lighting it. The island had the vague shape of a bird’s head, and at the very tip of the bill, smoke was seeping up towards the stars. 

The Bentley soared past a couple of small villages before finally beginning to lose height on the other side of the island. Crowley could see long lines of narrow, higgledy-piggledy Victorian houses framing winding roads. The closest village climbed up the steep face of the land, some of the hills impossible to fathom in that tripping over on the way home from work would more likely result in death than a scrape on the knee. 

There was a church, a graveyard, more houses, more hills … and then the Bentley came to a slow stop, diving down to slot neatly in between two cars outside of a Post Office. 

Crowley was too numb from the events in Heaven to really care that his car had just flown in from the clouds to land on some piddling island in the middle of nowhere. The Post Office, with its signature red branding, had to mean that he was still somewhere on the British Isles. Convenient, he thought, vacating the car on shaking legs to try and get a better look at the place. 

Oscar trotted neatly out after him. Before the cat could get away, Crowley grabbed the end of her pink lead and yanked her back to pick her up, holding the creature up to his face. 

“Oscar,” the demon growled warningly, and the cat gazed steadily back at him. “What’re you up to, then? You think I’m not going to find a way to make a throw rug out of you after what you’ve done? Why are you still a bloody cat if you can transform again?” As he expected, he was met with silence. “Show me where he is _right. Now._ And if he - if Hell has gotten to him - I won’t hold back, Oscar, I swear to Someone. You’ll pay, I tell you that now.”

Turning his head slightly, he saw a flabbergasted dog-walker stood on the other side of the road, gaping at him.

“What?” He barked, and then he snapped his fingers to erase any strange visions of flying cars and men talking to cats. Oscar wrangled herself out of his hold in the meantime and sped off towards a daunting hill that led to the heart of the village. Crowley cursed and locked his car with a miracle. “OSCAR, YOU BLOODY … COME BACK HERE!”

The dog-walker stared as the tall, lean fellow with yellow eyes sped off after a fancy Persian cat. 

All sorts of weird things happened on that island. The walker and his dog shrugged it off and continued on their way. 

“OSCAR!” Crowley shouted, though recognised the effort was pointless. The Throne was back at full power, though her decision to maintain the appearance Aziraphale had given her was notable. It meant that Crowley wasn’t having to deal with an island of humans having their consciousnesses ripped apart by the sight of her true self, which would make finding his friend somewhat easier. He hoped. 

In the dead of night when all was silent, it didn’t seem promising. Was Oscar leading him on a wild goose chase? What would be her reasoning behind that? Was there even any use trying to put sense into something Crowley was sure he could never really understand?

He stopped running after a short time and watched Oscar the cat disappear off somewhere up the hill. She’d left him. Miserably loping up the road with no real idea where he was going or if he was even on the same continent as Aziraphale, Crowley had to fight to keep his frustrations contained. Through the raging anger, a deep sadness began to manifest as reality deeper inwards, unwelcome. It wasn’t fair. None of what he had seen had been fair. 

Why would God have allowed such a terrible thing to happen?

It was a bad question. For him, at least. He had seen the direct results of many bad things God had allowed to happen. It just so happened that _this_ bad thing had hit a little too close to home. Reluctantly turning his eyes towards the cloudy night sky, he scowled. There were all sorts of things he could say to express his dissatisfaction with Her, but what was the use? She wouldn’t be listening to a demon, and he couldn’t make the excuse of trying to help an angel seeing as that angel had disappeared into a swirling vortex of storms and Hellfire. 

The Throne wouldn’t have just dropped him into the middle of nowhere, would she? There had to be a reason behind that location in particular. If Oscar had any goodness in her metaphorical heart then this was where Aziraphale had ended up, it was just a matter of where _exactly_. 

Smelling the scent of human ahead, Crowley glanced up and saw the dark figure of a woman stood anxiously outside a terrace of small homes, her thumbs twiddling before a round, pregnant belly. She was looking towards the peak of the hill, jittering with apparent nerves. 

The demon had two options. He could walk past and ignore her and carry on with his search, or he could take ten second to make sure that human - that very pregnant and worried human, he reminded himself - was all right. About to walk past, he found himself stopping and he quickly pulled his sunglasses down over his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” He asked before he realised what he was saying. Aziraphale would absolutely rib him if he were there. Call him some awful four letter word. 

Realising he probably seemed more of a creep than a concerned stranger, Crowley looked away and made to continue on. 

“Wait!”

He glanced cooly back over his shoulder. The woman was staring at him, wide-eyed. She had an explosion of dark curls and wore an inquisitive but fierce expression, though her pink pyjamas and dressing gown sort of allayed that. 

“Are you … with the government?” The woman asked unsurely, then immediately seemed embarrassed. “Sorry - it’s just … your sunglasses, you look like a secret agent or something.”

“Why? Got some bodies in there I should know about?” Crowley muttered. “I’m not with the government. I’m looking for a friend. You haven’t seen anything, well …” The demon shrugged. “You haven’t seen anything take a tumble out of the sky by any chance, have you?”

The woman’s jaw fell open. Before she could say anything, he turned to face her, his features straightening into full seriousness. Bingo.

“Where?” He asked agitatedly. 

“Not me, but - my husband. Um. What’re you planning on doing with the, uh -“

“Angel?” The word hung in the air for a moment. Crowley stared unblinkingly at the stranger, feeling his patience burn at the seams. It could have been a matter of life and death, but he also knew scaring her would get him absolutely nowhere. Sucking in a breath, he refrained from approaching. “I’m here to make sure he’s all right, actually. Get him back on his feet, you know. Then I’m gonna kill him.”

The woman paled. “O-oh, uh, that would - that would be a shame. Maybe you could …” She drifted off uneasily, apparently unable to read the demon’s cold and stoic expression. 

He was concealing dread, and a lot of it. 

“I’m not killing him,” he clarified impassively. As he slowly came to terms with what he was facing, he fought memories of his own Fall: there hadn’t been that much smoke and fire, not in the end. More of a boiling pool of sulphur he had ungracefully splat into during the War. He’d really just been minding his own business, and then … Well, that was all history. Bottom line was, he knew exactly what his friend would be going through, and it was nothing pleasant. So, clawing back his impatience and desperation, he clenched his hands together at his belly and gazed at the woman through the dark lenses of his glasses. “Please, ma’am, I really need to be getting on and finding him,” he urged, his voice suddenly full of sorrow. 

What was this, Oliver Twist? 

Something seemed to click in the woman’s mind, then. Her features relaxed with a mixture of sympathy and what Crowley could read as intrigue. Wisely, she did not ask any more questions, even though there were hundreds of them burning there in her dark, inquisitive eyes. 

“My husband is bringing him back here, but … you should know, things didn’t seem good. Emery was beside himself, he saw the whole thing.”

A pick axe broke into the ice of his heart. A part of him hoped it was an Archangel, not his Aziraphale, but why would Oscar have mislead him? Speaking of which … Crowley turned about a bit, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. That was bad, he acknowledged, but at that moment in time, he truly did not care where the Throne was. He faced the road and brought a hand to his mouth, briefly gripping at his cheeks as his inner turmoil grew.

“You know how they get, sometimes they’re a bit grumpy or a bit peckish and go off and then they’re in trouble, but there’s no one who cares enough to get them out of it save for you, and then the next thing you know they’re jumping into some portal of evil that sends them shooting off down to Earth. That’s a point: where the Hell is _here,_ exactly?”

The woman nodded under the pretence she understood, frowned, and turned to open the gate towards the small house, digging keys out of her dressing gown pocket. 

“Not the sort of place angels belong,” she murmured. “I can hear the car. Come inside when they’re here, won’t you? And don’t worry, I won’t tell the government you’re here.”

Heart hammering so hard he thought his corporation might just pass out, Crowley watched the headlights of a car appear at the top of the hill. The vehicle approached at a very illegal speed, though he had to commend the driver’s gracefully urgent three-point turn into a ridiculously small parking space. 

He could smell the burning. Without waiting for the driver to get out, Crowley yanked open the rear passenger door. And then his vision went blank. 

It was worse than he had dared imagine. The demon had to pick himself up from his knees, using the door as leverage. Staring down at the unrecognisable body of his friend, his breaths became ragged and his mind began to swim with a pure and unadulterated _rage_. 

That had to wait until later. By some miracle (and Crowley suspected it _was_ by a hasty miracle), Aziraphale had not discorporated. Without being healed he most certainly would, and soon. He was just so terribly broken, everywhere. Horrible burns covered the entirety of him, bloody and seeping. One of his wings was dangling clean in half - probably broken in the crash, and the feathers of them were smoking and charred.

And that was only the outside. There was no sort of response from his celestial self when Crowley went poking, just a total absence of light and worrying silence. He should have been getting shooed away by now for daring breach the formerly holy sphere of Aziraphale’s existence. 

That wasn’t right. There should have been _something._ If the Hellfire had destroyed his celestial body then his corporation should have been destroyed, too, yet here it was. There was no time to ponder it, however, not yet. Crowley darted into the car and very carefully arranged his friend’s damaged wings, then tugged him from the seats to awkwardly heave him into a bridal lift. He then pushed past the human male that had appeared and headed into a gate, casting a quick miracle to ensure that no window peepers would get a good view of what was happening. 

The immediate corridor was so narrow that he couldn’t possibly have fit through it holding the angel as he was - so he cast another miracle, uncaring, appearing in the small but cosy living room of the strangers that had welcomed him in. He quickly lowered Aziraphale down onto their creaky leather couch and arranged the cushions so that he might be comfortable, wherever he was, making sure to keep him turned on his side so that his wings would have room to rest. 

Nothing outside of that room existed. Not then. Crowley forgot the world as he immediately set upon healing every inch of his friend’s body, from the very tips of his toes all the way to the crown of his head. It could have taken minutes or hours, he wasn’t sure, and it took more miracles than he cared about. The break in the wing took the longest to heal, but when it was done, he finally vanished all the blood and soot and whatever else, and then Aziraphale looked himself again.

For the most part. Crowley pulled the soft fleece throw from the back of the couch and covered the angel with it, tucking it in around his neck. Only then could the demon sit back and relax, albeit momentarily, sweating from the exertion of healing. Pained, he caught his breath and took the chance to really look at the messy wings on display.

They weren’t black. They were more of a dusty white sort of colour and darkened at the tips. Aziraphale’s hair, too, had lost its lustre, now a pale brown at the base of his neck and shifting up into a sandy blonde. His natural luminescence was gone. It was like gazing into a darkened window that had always, _always_ been aglow with comforting light and warmth, now diminished into inexplicable cold. 

Leaning in, Crowley got to his knees and sat back on his heels, prodding cluelessly at his friend’s cheek.

“Aziraphale,” he attempted, the name soft on his breath. “Come on. Rise and shine. I know you’re in there. We’ve got a lot to talk about.” 

His heart pulled painfully at the lack of reaction. He couldn’t remember this happening after his own Fall; he had discorporated and then he had been taken into Hell by his peers to receive his new name and that was that, he was set to work as a demon. Others hadn’t been so lucky, their manifested bodies appearing more as animals that simply piloted iffy human looking shells around. There was always _something_ to suggest one was a demon, though, just as the angels had their distinguishing marks. For Crowley, it was his eyes and the tattoo on his face. 

He peeled up one of Aziraphale’s eyelids. There was no drastic change there, only that they had finally settled on a colour - a more brownish hazel. Crowley was disturbed to find the eye looking right at him, the pupil dilating in response to the sudden light, but there was nothing else. No clever smile or snarky comment. No Aziraphale. 

“Angel,” Crowley tried again, leaning in, “I just came whizzing in from the sky in the Bentley and I think I’ve lost the cat, but she was a bit of a tosser, anyway. We’re on an island, uh, somewhere, and I have no idea what to do with myself let alone a useless lump of bastard here on this stranger’s couch.” At the further lack of response, the demon even resorted to pressing his palms together and closing his eyes in desperate prayer. “Aziraphale, Angel of the Flaming Sword, etcetera, blah blah. It’s Crowley! Wake up, or I’m drawing gonads on your face while you’re oblivious. That was one of mine, you know - or was it one of yours, uh, while you were covering? Anyway, I got a pat on the back for it. Just let me know that you’re still here, angel. Please. I don’t pray to anyone, so hurry up. Amen.”

Crowley felt vaguely like he was leaving a message on a dodgy ansaphone. There was no guarantee that the recipient would hear it. Did prayers even work? Experience said that no, they didn’t.

The demon felt very, very alone. He felt afraid, withering at the possibility of having to endure the world without a best friend. And the last thing he had done … the last thing he had done to Aziraphale on Earth was to fight with him. How was that fair? 

They had both been immeasurably idiotic. However, Crowley wished dearly that their positions could be swapped, because extinction seemed easier to consider than a world that persisted without its one Principality within it.

But their positions could not be swapped. He could not heal the empty spots on Aziraphale’s wings and make the feathers grow. He could not heal the celestial body of another being, no, not with miracles alone.

There on that lonely island beneath a Moon that turned a blind eye, two very confused and frightened humans watched as a demon tentatively reached under the blanket and took an angel’s hand into his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Way to Fall by Starsailor. 
> 
> I said there would be some clarity this chapter but that will be in the next one hopefully, heh.


	10. A Star Beckons

Somewhere on the continent of Australia, six Archangels landed in the middle of a great desert.

They all discorporated within miles of each other. Rising from their respective craters without their bodies, the beings were immediately disturbed to find that a dreadful agony lingered deep within themselves. It was so much that for a time, none of them could even move and attempt to find each other.

Angels could not feel true sorrow. It went against what they were, what they were made from. Angels severed from the light of Heaven and God, however, could indeed feel sorrow and everything akin to it, and were fresh to the awful pain of it. It was enough that they wailed their torment into the red sands, searching within themselves to try and find one trace of light, the feeling of God’s love pulsing within them like a heartbeat.

It was _gone._

Gabriel turned his gaze towards the daylight, silently begging for that powerful warmth to flood through his being and invigorate him back to the Archangel he was supposed to be, but there was nothing. Something must have been blocking it, somehow! There was no way that God Herself could have abandoned him - not _him,_ when She had looked upon him with so much love those thousands of years ago. Even if She had not uttered a word unto him since … well … the Beginning. 

He hadn’t done anything wrong, he _hadn’t_. It was all Aziraphale, he was the one who had jumped into the vortex, he was the one who had brought them all crashing to Earth and burnt away God’s light. Gabriel had just been trying to enact the greater good! How else was that Message, that simply worded Message from Above, supposed to be interpreted? It was just business! Now there was seemingly no chance of a promotion or even a way to rise to Heaven again.

Because try as he might, he could not Ascend. 

He couldn’t even perform a miracle, much to his shock. Looking down at two of his four hands, the talons of an eagle, he found nothing had changed to make him appear more demonic. His wings were not black but slightly off-colour. What was missing, however, was his once blindingly bright angelic glow. His halo was just rings, no longer burning. His eyes, once alight with violet fire, were hollow. He was _broken._ It couldn’t be possible!

Archangel Gabriel’s unearthly scream of rage and sorrow tore across the desert like a ragged howling of a wolf, soon to be met by the calls of the rest of his pack, similarly distressed. 

When he dropped to his knees, he pulled his hands together and stared beseechingly towards the Sun. 

“Lord, please - _please_ reconsider! This was just all some horrible accident, I can assure you! The Archangels weren’t supposed to be subject to review, I -“ he paused, remembering that the Message had never said any such thing. It was only that he had assumed. No, he had _feared._ Choking back his grief, Gabriel dropped to his hands and clenched at the dirt beneath him. “It couldn’t have been meant for us, we didn’t do anything wrong! We are not like you, O Lord, we’re … fallible. Imperfect. We were lost, and you were nowhere to be found. We were alone! _I_ was alone.”

Gabriel suddenly heard something buzzing by his ear. Swatting at the source of the noise, he straightened up and faced the massive expanse of the desert. 

Like this, he felt so small. Not large and in charge like in Heaven, where he had ruled without question. Prince of the Archangels, now trapped somewhere on Earth’s surface without the power to even warp somewhere more appealing. That new and agonising emptiness within him simply would not allow for escape.

And God was as silent as ever. 

No ‘thank you for your service, Gabriel.’ No ‘thank you for your time but I’m not sure you’re the right fit for this environment’. _Nothing._

And yet he still loved Her. How could he not?

Gabriel was wise. It was sort of part of his cosmic coding. Perhaps that wisdom had become twisted over the years, but there it was, and it allowed him to realise that he was being given a choice. God was perfection, was She not? She was love and everything good, and when She wasn’t good it was to spite those who had earned her wrath. That was what Gabriel knew, and could only come to the conclusion that he _had_ done something wrong. The Message, then, had been a test, and he had failed. 

He had failed Her. He had failed Heaven. Most of all, he had failed himself. 

But this wasn’t like the old times, he realised. No angel had fallen since the War. One might have thought She had turned away from resorting to it, though it was impossible to know. He hadn’t Fallen, not yet. He had just crash landed, much as the Throne had, albeit without his angelic gifts, which had been stripped away by Hellfire. 

He had a choice. He had a _chance._ He just had to find a way to get back into Heaven’s good graces!

The angel - or whatever he was, now - got back to his feet and was about to move off in search of his colleagues, but then something buzzed near his ear again. 

“Looks like the reviewzzz are off the table,” said a voice he knew all too well. 

Turning, Gabriel found himself gazing down upon his nemesis, Beelzebub. His hollow eyes narrowed. 

“Beat it, squirt.”

“Nah,” Beelzebub responded adamantly, tilting zir head. “Strange. Never seen a Falling like this before.” The demon raised zir eyebrows and looked the Archangel over with dull amusement. “I forgot what you looked like under there. Scary.”

With a furious huff, Gabriel turned and set off, stalking across the sand as fast as his suddenly very heavy wings would allow. The last thing he needed was to be dealing with a Prince of Hell, who would no doubt try to tempt him into doing something nefarious to earn passage into the decrepit realm below. 

“Why are you even here?” He asked scornfully upon hearing Beelzebub walking lightly behind him. “Buzz off, ingrate. You said that your boss is letting demons go. There’s no point hiring more, now, is there?”

“We were surprised to find that the Heavenly reviews didn’t go as planned, so we cancelled ours, too. Would be dumb to let ‘em go and then be outnumbered. So, what’s the plan, Stan? Might as well come to Hell without a fuss. Doesn’t look like you can put up much of a fight, now.”

“Is that so? Didn’t I defeat you in the War despite you being a Cherubim? You’re a terrible fighter.”

“‘Spose,” Beelzebub agreed, sounding bored beyond compare. “What’re you gonna do, then? Just wander around looking like that?”

“Until I find a way home, _yeah._ What do you care? Leave me here, Beelzebub. That really shouldn’t be too hard for you, should it?”

The demon sighed. “Still angry about back then? Here I was thinkin’ that angels are meant to be all forgivin’ n’ that.”

Feeling an abrupt surge of anger, Gabriel snarled and spun around, lashing out with his talons. Much to his irritation, all they did was ghost straight through his demonic foe without leaving a trace of damage, not even a sort of holy singe that one might have expected. 

“You left me to be best pals with Lucifer and turned your sword against me!” It was difficult for Gabriel to keep the resentment out of his voice. Thousands of years of it. And without the presence of God’s love and light within him, it suddenly felt far more raw and potent than ever. “I was left to wonder just what I had done wrong. Then I realised: I just had to make it to Cherubim like you both were, and then I would finally be good enough. All I had to do was what I thought She wanted. I was wrong - I mean, I read it wrong. And - the angels …”

“C’mon, Gabe. You’re not you without your gift of the gab, are ya?”

“I betrayed them all,” he admitted with dawning realisation. “I almost Fell. But … all I did was fall, like this. I _can_ go back.”

“Right. Well, that’s more than I ever got. One of your siblings wasn’t quite so adamant about where they stood, by the way.”

Alarm striking, Gabriel manifested his fear with a scowl, folding his four arms defensively across his chest. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He scoffed.

“It means we’ve got Sandalphon. He crashed and let me tell ya, he burned. He made his choice. Now you can make yourzzz.” Beelzebub stared up at zir counterpart without a trace of emotion, zir eyes pale against the sand of the desert. “You could be a Prince of Hell, Gabriel. Our Lord Lucifer would like you, I know he would. Things could be as they were. As they were meant to be.” Ze took a daring step forwards. “A demon as fierce as you would be worshipped by Hell in its entirety.”

Perhaps Gabriel was supposed to feel the flickering of temptation in his core. Many, many angels had indeed been tempted by such offers in the past and were absorbed easily into the ranks of Hell. Now Sandalphon was one of them, much to his dismay, a startling reminder of how close the rest of them had come to losing their divinity entirely. Instead of temptation, Gabriel only felt grief alongside something that was very uncomfortable. Guilt, maybe. 

Perhaps part of him acknowledged that all of this was his fault. Most of him, however, just wanted to move on and restore order. That was his purpose. That was what God had wanted of him since the beginning, and he had _forgotten_. In his eternal frustration and contempt towards his own perceived faults, he had almost destroyed millions of angels.

Regarding the Demon Prince, he felt pangs of loss and rage, though his proud, angelic features finally relaxed in realisation.

“Do you think I am a mere human to be tempted, demon?” He asked, meeting his adversary’s frown with a smile. “I can mess up without you, clearly. I am Gabriel! Prince of Archangels, Deliverer of Divine Messages, and you can pull that from my cold, extinct hands if need be, Beelzebub. I would no more join you than I would join Lucifer himself in a fetid hot tub of lava and farts, you little shit. You rancid blight of Heaven. I will never be like you and your useless platoon, going without so much as a fight. You all dropped like _flies_.”

Beelzebub sighed. “So close.” And then ze disappeared in a burst of flame.

Gabriel was left alone with his stinking guilt. 

Despite his refusal to be turned, Heaven did not open the skies up for him, though he had doubted that they would. Even he could see that the things he had done were too great of a crime to warrant such easy passage back into his Sphere. Millions of angels could have suffered the same punishment without having committed any sort of crime whatsoever, he realised. That would have been unjust. Now, he would either earn his angelhood back or wander the Earth for an eternity as he was, but it was his nature to try and put things right, no matter the cost.

Sandalphon was gone, but the other Archangels persisted somewhere. Among the swirling emotions in his core, Gabriel felt a spark of pride; his siblings had not succumbed to the temptations of Hell there in the desert, and their light was still burning wherever it had fled to. 

He could only hope that it stayed that way.

Opening his wings, he began to soar across the red desert in the heat of midday, leaving no trace of his footprints behind.

In the sky, a bright star shone. He found it among the blue and set his sights upon its stark flickering. 

_Gabriel,_ it seemed to say as it urged him onwards. _You have a new Message to deliver._

* * *

On the other side of the world, Marchosias looked up into the night as she left the crags of Hell and the festering remnants of her once esteemed status. 

There was a star burning brightly up there. Too brightly, perhaps. It was stationed somewhere to the south, and the demon felt suddenly compelled to follow it. It had to have been a sign from Below. 

A great, black wolf took to the streets of London and headed for the countryside.

* * *

Meanwhile, on a cursed lump of limestone somewhere in the English Channel, Crowley was sitting in an armchair in the house of strangers, staring at Aziraphale over his steepled fingers. 

He had tried everything. He had gone through with his threat of drawing vulgarity on his friend’s face, though had immediately felt guilty and cleaned it off. He had recounted every swear word he could think of under the Sun and spoke them aloud, right next to Aziraphale’s ear in the hopes he would awaken out of sheer rectitude. He had conjured the sweetest smelling cakes and wafted their scent forwards. 

Then he sat and stared for hours and hours, considering. 

It was really starting to hurt, all this. Crowley had never cared for anyone in the way he had come to care for Aziraphale. He couldn’t even remember feeling such a way about God, back in the beginning. God had made him Fall and then he had been nothing short of alone and very confused. And in the midst of all that mess, an angel had dared speak to him as if he were a Being and not something that crawled on the ground. The angel had shielded him from the rains of Eden. Crowley would never forget, not for as long as he lived. 

So he had popped up to rescue Aziraphale from discorporation whenever he had found himself in a spot of bother, which was rather often. Up until that stint in Heaven, he had succeeded. Miracles could not come to his aid now; this all went beyond his understanding and capabilities. So he sat, and he waited. He would wait for as long as it took. 

At some point during the morning, the door to the living room slowly creaked open and a nervous face peeped around it to look at him, eyes widened. Maybe the humans thought the previous night had all been a strange dream. Alas, they were still playing host to two entities that they did not know and had not dared venture into the living room for most of the morning.

Guilt touching faintly at his heart, Crowley stared at the woman, his pained eyes concealed by his sunglasses. 

“I’ll be taking him back to London, soon,” he announced somewhat icily, flopping his hands down onto the armrests of his chair. “We’ll be out of your hair.”

The woman gaped and eased herself fully into the room, gently closing the door behind her. 

“You don’t have to leave,” she insisted, so kindly that Crowley had to look away. “Sorry - just thought I’d give you, um, some privacy.” She allowed herself to look at Aziraphale, then, her eyes drinking in the sight of his wings. Awestruck, she inched closer and very carefully dabbed at the sweat that had formed on his brow with the sleeve of her shirt. “He looks much better. Did - did you heal him? Are you an angel, too?”

“No,” Crowley muttered, sinking further into the armchair. He considered telling the truth, then his eyes trailed to the woman’s pregnant belly. Now, he didn’t know much about that sort of thing, but he knew that stress didn’t really help matters in that department, so he staved off. “Something else, actually. It’s not important.”

The woman carefully sat on the very edge of the couch and continued to touch Aziraphale’s face, running a hand down his cheek. She wore a soft smile.

“Never been religious,” she admitted. “I believe in things most people scoff at, though. Seems to me there’s more bad going around than good. When something good does come around, it’s a blessing, but sometimes you’ve seen so much bad that you’re counting the days until the blessing is taken away.”

Crowley gritted his teeth and looked at the human’s weary but kind face. It was almost as if she understood. Brow furrowing, he glanced at the mantelpiece and at the small, framed photographs lining it. Pictures of a family, now reduced to two. He’d thought he could sense something about the house - certainly a kind of sorrow, and perhaps even a presence - though he had been too caught up in everything else to focus on it. The scowl he wore lessened, just slightly. 

“My name is Cadence, by the way,” the woman continued, turning her attention back to him. “You can stay here until you’re back on your feet. Really. Emery is at work but he doesn’t mind you staying, either. We talked about it. Anything we can do to help.”

Crowley grunted. “Fine. If he wakes up, though, you need to leave the room. Chances are he’s going to be very upset, and the last thing we need is you getting hurt.”

“All right,” Cadence agreed quickly, and her dark eyes turned curious. “Can I ask what happened? Will he get better?”

“He fell. I don’t know if he’ll get better,” was the short answer. “I’ll give it a few days, then I’m taking him back to London.”

His thought process was of the possibility that familiar surroundings might help, or maybe there was something in the bookshop that could give direction. It was the only option that he had left, save for waiting a little longer. The longer he waited, however, the more insistent his worry was becoming, and he was forced to consider the worst: that Aziraphale had been destroyed and his corporation was only alive because of some freak occurrence that had happened within the vortex. 

It was the burning bookshop all over again. Crowley couldn’t stand it. For all his power, he couldn’t do the one thing that really mattered. He couldn’t _help_. 

Gripping the armrests at that particular memory, the demon closed his eyes and fought at the incessant doubt and invasive thoughts. He had to, at least while there was a possibility that he wasn’t actually as alone as he felt. 

“Does it, uh …” he began, wrestling so firmly with his inner thoughts that his voice was strained. He quickly ran a hand down his face and swallowed thickly. The words wouldn’t form in his mouth, but perhaps they formed on his face, instead, for the human seemed to read him with infuriating ease. 

“Get easier?” She asked quietly, her gaze flicking briefly to the photographs. Expertly maintaining her poise, she murmured, “Only a tiny bit. And slowly. You go on because the world goes on. What else can you do, really? They loved you, so it’s what they would want.”

Crowley suddenly sensed an enormous swell of guilt within the room. Biting his tongue, he watched the woman heave herself upright and reach for the door.

“You don’t have to go,” he offered, then winced slightly. “This is your house.”

Cadence smiled again, pausing. “I know. It’s strange. I feel as though I can trust you both. Not sure I’ve felt that way about a stranger for a long time. I’m just popping down to the shop for a few bits and bobs. Do you … need anything?”

“I’m all right,” the demon responded weakly. 

When Cadence was gone, the guilt pervading the room ebbed a good deal. 

He was unsure as to the reason behind it, but it _had_ given him an idea. He could sense such things with ease, being an unholy construct. The hidden truths of sinners flickered within his thoughts on a daily basis. Arguments nearby had woken him in the night from the sheer anger and upset behind them. He could feel grief from a mile off. This was a house of despair, now, not love, so maybe if Aziraphale had something to stimulate him back into purpose ...

Crowley scrambled off the chair and onto the carpet, kneeling in front of his friend. 

“You’re really gonna make me do this, aren’t you?” He accused softly. Relaxing himself, he closed his eyes but opened his mind, allowing part of his celestial body to step into psychic planes of their existence. As expected, there was nothing there to greet him, only the basic hum of life from the soulless mind of the corporation. 

It was hard. He was a demon, after all. Contrary to popular belief, demons were not entirely loveless - it was only that the part of them that loved was usually so overwhelmed by hatred that any feelings of affection were smothered into near non-existence. Also, they all had a reputation to maintain, and being able to love and swoon and all that nonsense was sure to get one reported to the Dark Council as a miscreant. Hate, hate, hate, that was all Hell ever seemed to want. That was part of the reason Crowley had never really fit in. 

Partially occupying Aziraphale’s mental space, Crowley gave him a much needed injection of everything he knew the angel liked: the smell of baking, the sound of tea brewing. The laughter of children and the humming of a song under one’s breath. Ducks quacking in a vibrant, sunny park. An old book, rugged and musty and filled with new knowledge and expressions of love. His favourite Shakespearean verses and sonnets, the taste of a freshly made meal. Last of all, the demon offered himself for consideration, and then he filled that cavernous space with all the affection that he felt.

This soup of sickening goodness stewed for a little while. Crowley began to feel vibrantly stupid, so he began his retreat.

Then the light on the ceiling flickered. 

He saw it through his eyelids. Yanking off his sunglasses, he looked up and saw it flicker again. And then the television in the corner made an odd beeping sound and switched itself on and off, on and off. Focusing intently back on Aziraphale, he found that something was emerging back into its rightful place.

The bulb on the ceiling smashed into pieces, tinkling down to the carpet. Crowley quickly retreated from the angel’s space in both senses of the word, arranging himself back onto the edge of the armchair and fixating on his friend’s face. And just like that, the technology that had been affected by the rising presence of something Other stopped making noises or lighting up.

He had never felt such sheer, unadulerated relief when Aziraphale opened his eyes. It seemed he might have been all right until his hands rose to press against his face, stifling a gasp and then an agonised wail. 

It was no doubt a feeling that any demon could recall with ease: that realisation of the absence of God, the feeling of being suddenly so vacuous and empty, so _alone_. It was the first time an angel ever truly understood what grief or sorrow even felt like, and it struck like a dagger to the heart, over and over and without mercy - because it was an abomination. Beings forged of love and light weren’t supposed to feel that way, and so it crippled them from within. It was a feeling that would never abandon them, so some just chose to cling to it. It would never leave them, not like God had. 

It was a travesty to see any truly good being suffer with it. Unsure what to do as Aziraphale burst into heaving sobs, Crowley stood up and hovered there for a few seconds, agonising over the sight despite his relief. 

“Aziraphale! It’s all right,” he attempted. Well, he never was any good at comforting anyone. Very gingerly putting a hand on the angel’s exposed shoulder, he awkwardly rubbed at it, dismayed. “It’s me. It’s Crowley.”

However, Aziraphale seemed to have rebooted from his last viable memory, and as such just yelled behind his fists in response and then lashed out, flailing his arms in a desperate bid to survive. His strength was not that of a Principality. Nor even an angel. The demon was able to catch hold of his wrists before he was struck and hold them fast until his friend was forced to look at him, and when those eyes snapped open they fixated on Crowley like those of a predatory owl. 

Chest heaving and face dripping with sweat and tears, Aziraphale silenced and continued to stare at the demon. Slowly, recognition began to settle in through the rage of adrenaline and fear, and his features gradually became more like his own: somehow soft and sharp all at once and positively aghast.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, his bottom lip quivering for an embarrassing second. “You’re back. You scared me for a mo, there. Where the bloody Hell did you vanish off to? New Guinea?”

“I - I don’t …” Wincing, Aziraphale clenched himself in his arms and groaned into the pillow, curling into a tight little ball. “Goodness. Whatever is this burning?”

“Must be from where you Fell. It’ll fade, just give it some time.”

“Fell …” whispered the angel, and he snivelled in another shaking sob, his devastatingly sorrowful eyes looking up at the demon. “O-oh, that’s right … I - I … I’m n-not …”

“Don’t cry, angel, you’ll just set me off.” Crowley rubbed his sleeve under his nose and then shuffled closer, slowly running a hand up and down the other’s upper arm. It was strange, he realised. He had never so much as hugged his friend. Hugging and affection weren’t exactly what either of them were designed for - not when it came to supposed arch enemies, at least. 

“I … I can’t feel Her -“

“You won’t do. She isn’t really gone, though. You know that. It really hurts at first, but it’s just sadness. That’s all it is. I’m here, all right? You’re not going through this alone.” His hand continued to soothe, but the skin beneath it was cold and clammy to the touch. Using miracles to try and heal whatever ailment this was, they found nothing, and yet it persisted. Crowley removed his sunglasses and watched over his friend concernedly, leaning in to try and scent anything remotely demonic about him. “Can you remember what happened in the vortex?”

“Nngh … does that really matter now, Crowley?” Dulled, hazel eyes sought his, and then filled with what looked like relief. “You were there. In Heaven.”

“Yeah, well. ‘Spose I was. Bit useless in the end, but there we go.”

“But you weren’t,” Aziraphale insisted. “You were _there._ Oh, my dear … your foolishness is no match for your bravery. I’m just sorry that you had to see it. And … about the holy water -“

Crowley growled at that. “Don’t apologise. It’s fine. I know where it is if I need it, awright? Let’s not focus on it.”

“It’s not fine. I took it from you and yet you crashed your Bentley into Heaven to find me. You could have been killed! What were you even thinking performing a stunt like that?!”

Annoyed, the demon removed his hand and sat back a little, his brow creasing. 

“Just leave you to it next time, shall I? Christ, Aziraphale. Like I was gonna sit on my arse while you were off getting murdered by loopy Archangels. What do you take me for?” He tensed. “A demon, I suppose.”

“A good kind of demon,” Aziraphale croaked, reaching for Crowley’s hand, which he brought in to hold tightly underneath the blanket. He attempted something of a smile despite everything, and the demon felt his resolve melt as quickly as it had built. “A dear friend. Thank you. I am unspeakably grateful for you and everything that you are.”

Crowley’s heart quickened underneath his steely exterior. Instead of facing up to those feelings just yet, he pulled a face and muttered a rather rude “eurgh” in response, though made no attempt to pull his hand away and leaned in some more, savouring the gentle softness of an angel’s fingers. He could see the pain lingering in his friend’s eyes and wanted nothing more than to banish it away, but a pain of that sort took time. He was powerless. 

“I was just having cake.” Lifting the plate he had attempted to awaken Aziraphale with, he offered it forwards. “Sit up and you can have the rest of it.”

To his disappointment, he was met with a small shake of the head. 

“I am not feeling particularly peckish, actually.” It was another way of saying, ‘I feel absolutely bloody awful’. “Another time, assuredly. I feel as though I could sleep for a thousand years.”

“Sleep, then. I’ll be here. Bored out of my wits, but here.”

“Oh! Thank you.” Aziraphale’s eyes closed with evident relief, though the lines of his face were etched with everything that could possibly be wrong. “That would be lovely, but I suppose that Hell will come for me soon. I do hope that it’s a quick process.”

Troubled, Crowley’s face fell; he hadn’t really been thinking about Hell and the scouting agents they sent to sniff out the Fallen. Truthfully, he had no idea what was going to happen, for Aziraphale did not resemble a newly Fallen demon in the slightest and he did not have the wherewithal to consider what that meant. Not yet. He, too, just wanted to curl up and sleep away the pain. 

“Move over,” he found himself demanding, slithering up onto the side of the couch and squeezing himself into the space that was made. Lying there on his back on top of the throw, he kept his gaze pinned to the ceiling. There was some satisfaction to be had in the fact that demons might find him like this, prone with a still righteous Fallen pressed to his side. It would be worth it. Turning his head a little, he felt soft hair tickle his cheek. 

“Crowley?”

“What?”

“I can’t, um … well. I can’t seem to feel anything. I mean, I can’t sense it. It’s all gone.”

“What’s all gone?”

“Love,” Aziraphale admitted, devastation evident in his quiet tone. “It’s gone. Just like that. I thought that, for a second … ”

A tense sort of silence followed. Crowley closed his eyes, listening to his heart beat frantically in response. 

“It’s not gone,” he admitted in turn. “Rest, angel. I’m right here.”

He could feel sorrowful eyes boring into him. As much as he wanted to make everything right, he couldn’t. Something like this needed time to be figured out. With a sharp sniff, Crowley turned onto his side, facing away from his companion, and then closed his eyes. 

There was a small silence filled only with Aziraphale’s sighs and hisses of discomfort, and then -

“Thank you, dear.”

“If you don’t put a sock in it and rest I’ll bloody make you.”

“What if I don’t -“

“Shut up,” Crowley insisted miserably. Digging a hand into his hair, he rode out the horrible stabs of fear pinging in his chest. He felt such a mess that he was sure he couldn’t handle it for much longer. “Of course you’ll wake up. Just don’t go floating off again. Your body’s just tired, that’s all.”

Behind him, the small noises fell into eventual quiet. Despite making a show of aloofness, partially not to overwhelm his friend, Crowley lingered there in his subconscious space like a child holding adamantly on to the string of his favourite balloon so that it wouldn’t disappear into the sky. 

The two of them slept for a full day and night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is A Reason to Fight by Disturbed.


	11. A Burgeoning Truth

Crowley was worried. Intensely so. 

Though he managed to hide it behind a stoic and devil-may-care facade, a kind of sick feeling churned in his belly. He gnawed on a thumbnail, leaning back on a counter in the cramped kitchen, watching Aziraphale poking half-heartedly at the steak Cadence had very kindly cooked for him that afternoon. The angel looked like someone else sat there at the dinner table. He looked smaller, somehow, as if the clothes Crowley had miracled onto him didn’t fit despite the attention to detail on the demon’s part. Certainly tired despite having spent all his time in the house (try as he might, he simply could not hide his wings). His skin was feverish without explanation.

And he was losing his feathers. Crowley hadn’t pointed it out, though they were both aware, instead crouching down on the constant to pick up the trail of off-colour feathers wherever the angel roamed. He had quite the collection, now, unsure what to do with them; they had lost any sort of holy property they might have had before. So he had put them in the boot of his car, unable to face simply throwing them away. 

He watched as another one floated down to the tiled floor. Gritting his teeth, he bent over and picked it up to tuck it quickly into his pocket. 

“Are you going to eat that or not?” He asked at last, his frustration brimming over like a pan of boiling water. “Or just going to sit there moulting?”

Aziraphale gave him a prickly look, then sighed defeatedly. “Would you finish it for me?”

“Not hungry. Besides, that’s not how it works.”

“What are you talking about? You’re always giving me what’s left of yours. Sometimes you don’t even touch it,” Aziraphale huffed. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that I don’t enjoy it like you do.” Unable to quell the irritation lacing his tone, he decided to stop trying and reached for the plate. “Am I getting rid of this?”

Aziraphale stood and grabbed it before the demon could, quickly turning to dispose of the leftover food with a pinched expression. 

“I’m quite capable of doing that myself, thank you. I do still have a body of my own.”

The tepid tension that had arisen in the morning had since become blistering. There was a certain hostility to the manner in which the pair addressed each other, and Crowley could not entirely blame himself for it, even if he was the one who had started it off. He had considered, silently and furiously, that none of this had really been his fault, and his thoughts drifted frequently to the distressing images of a body burnt and deformed from impact. Uncertainty clouded what he thought he knew. It was difficult to see past the anger and absolute fear that gripped him like a vice, and it was even more difficult to hide it as well as he usually did. 

Out of petulance, he mimicked Aziraphale’s prior sentence under his breath and flopped down onto the opposite chair, stretching his legs out. He could feel his friend glaring at him, though did not meet his eyes, keeping them pinned on the scenic view of the sea outside the window. 

“What was that, dear?” 

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come now, Crowley. Out with it.”

There was a genuine sort of curiosity to the demand which only served to aggravate Crowley further. With a short laugh of disbelief, he raised his eyebrows and gaped at Aziraphale, fighting from flipping the table entirely. Instead, he tapped his fingers firmly against the wood and his leg jittered unseen beneath it. 

“You can’t really be that oblivious. You want to know what’s bothering me, do you? Oh, I don’t know,” he shrugged wildly and then folded his arms, “I don’t know, maybe the fact you just threw yourself into that thing like it was nothing. Did you even consider the possibility it might have destroyed you? That it still might? No? Didn’t cross your mind? ‘Course not.”

The angel had his back to him by then, slowly washing up the plate in the sink. 

“They were going to force millions of angels to Fall!” Aziraphale explained, as if his reasoning should have been obvious. “If the vortex didn’t destroy them, then they would have been trapped on Earth! And no doubt Hell would have copied such a dreadful idea seeing as they were in cahoots with Heaven all along. Imagine the chaos that would have erupted down here! I had to do something to stop them; it just felt, oh … right, I suppose. The Throne gave me the clarity I needed.”

“Right, right. That’s fine then. She gave you clarity, you know, as if she didn’t have the power to just stop them herself. Instead she makes you burn up through some burning swirly thing of death. Not a big deal that it’s taken all your holiness and powers away, right? Maybe it’s all part of the Plan?”

The back facing him tensed somewhat. Aziraphale scrubbed aggressively at the plate as if it had somehow wronged him. 

“Well, maybe it is! How are we supposed to know?”

“Oh, no,” Crowley growled warningly. “Don’t give me all that. No, no, no. None of them deserved what you did. Not a single stinking one of them. You weren’t even on _their_ side anymore, Aziraphale!”

“So then the Earth would have suffered, too!” The angel barked, dropping the plate into the water and finally rounding on Crowley, who barely restrained a flinch. “I had to take that opportunity while it was there! It wasn’t like any of the others were going to do anything! None of them ever _do_ . And now they have no choice but to … but to finally pull their socks up and do what they were made to do instead of leaving it all for me! And the Earth can enjoy a few more years without being threatened by…" he waved a hand cluelessly. "By _cosmic immaturity_.”

Exasperated, the demon ran his hands back through his hair and scowled. “So all this is fine. It was all part of God’s plan. Everyone else gets a second chance but you, you just look a Throne in the eyes for two seconds and do what she wants like we didn’t fight to win our own lives back -“

“That wasn’t why I did it, you daft fool!”

“Oh, for the Earth, then. What about me? Did you even think about that all?”

That seemed to strike the anger straight out Aziraphale, who regarded Crowley with shock and a certain degree of honest confusion.

“The Earth is your home, Crowley. Of course I thought about you.”

Crowley felt his cheeks reddening in sudden embarrassment. Seething, he stared at his friend, the yellow of his eyes expanding in his stress. Beneath his feet, the tiles were becoming somewhat scorched, tendrils of smoke seeping from underneath his heels. His lips formed several shapes as he struggled to put into words the raging cluster of possible comebacks in his head. In the end, the hardest blow was the honest truth. 

“We were meant to be on our side,” he mumbled, barely legible. More accusingly, he continued, “Whatever. I’ll just carry on on my own then, shall I? Doesn’t matter, does it? The angels, though, yeah, they really needed your help, despite the fact they’ve all been walking over you since the Beginning. I saw how they talk to you up there when we switched bodies.”

Aziraphale flushed at that, and seemed about to retort with something equally biting, his nostrils flaring. However, he settled on concern instead, his wings briefly fluttering with anxiety.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Is that right? Is that why your corporation is falling apart?” Crowley felt wretched as soon as he said it. Still furious, however, he pulled the fallen feather back out of his pocket and held it up for consideration. “This isn’t right, Aziraphale! We can avoid it all we like, but _this_ … this isn’t how Falling is supposed to happen. I’m not even convinced you _have_ Fallen.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to find my way to Hell and tell them to damn well get on with it, then, shouldn’t I?” Aziraphale harrumphed, avoiding looking at the feather and Crowley altogether. By then, he was visibly upset by the argument and accusations at hand, and so too was Crowley. 

“That isn’t how it works. A Fallen doesn’t lose their power, it just changes into something demonic! Hell isn’t going to want you because your - your _celestial-ness -_ whatever, it’s packed up and bloody left. Your feathers are supposed to turn dark, not start falling off. The Archangels were off their heads if they thought they could make angels fall just by putting a bit of Hellfire in that thing. You have to learn to doubt God - which you obviously can’t. You have to learn to hate and spread misery. To question the Plan. _That’s_ how you become a demon.”

“Well, _thank you_ for the instruction, but you’ve made it quite clear that I'm entirely incapable of being a demon, which I'm inclined to agree! I suppose I’ll - I’ll just have to think of something else!”

“Think of _what,_ exactly? You know how to solve this as much as I do!”

Aziraphale spluttered and puffed out his chest in that indignant way of his when he was particularly offended, balling his fists at his sides. His wings puffed out in an explosion of feathers which he was forced to swat aside in order to continue glaring lividly at his companion, his cheeks flushing red as apples. 

“Well - well I’m not going to figure it out with you barking at me incessantly for a deed that’s already been done! Just go back to London, Crowley! I really have enough on my plate without you losing your temper!”

The demon snorted obnoxiously and got back to his feet. “You really think this is me losing my temper? You wanna see me lose my temper, dipstick? You’ll get fried off the face of the Earth before you’ve had time to even blink.”

“Oh, is that so? You don’t have it in you, you fiend, you’re all bark with no bite.”

“Bloody try me.” Crowley snarled as the pair drew closer, squaring off like a pair of rowdy cowboys. Thrusting his face threateningly into the angel’s, he hissed through his teeth, so close that the tips of their noses were a mere inch apart. “Where’sss your sssword, then? You’ll just have to ssswing around a butter knife!”

“Well!” Aziraphale retorted, admirable in his refusal to back down. “If needs must!”

Somebody cleared their throat. The pair turned their heads in unison to find Cadence stood anxiously in the doorway, glancing between them as if unsure whether to be frightened or angry or both of those things at once. Crowley could hardly blame her; housing entities that she did not know or understand must have been stressful enough without having them at each other’s throats, too. He quickly looked away and pulled on his sunglasses.

“Boys,” she addressed them, her tone remarkably firm. “Please don’t kill each other in my kitchen. I’m trying to write.”

Suitably abashed, the angel and demon pair pulled away from each other. Crowley returned to slouching in one of the seats at the table, while Aziraphale manifested a placating smile and clasped his fingers at his front, ever the people-pleaser. 

“ _So_ sorry,” Aziraphale offered, overly sweet. To the side, Crowley made a slight gagging sound, which went ignored. “My dear, you must show me some of your work. I’m an avid reader.”

Cadence seemed to cheer up at that and offered them both a sympathetic look.

“You’re sweet. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, anyway. I’ll be upstairs when you’re ready.”

“Of course. I’ll be just a minute.”

When the woman left, she gratefully left behind a rather awkward silence. The pair simply refused to look at each other after that, though neither of them left the room. Unsaid words hung heavy in the cramped space around them, both of them silently but frantically searching for ways they might speak them, but even angels and demons found some things too difficult to mention or admit.

It was hardly new territory, the arguments and the glaring and underhanded insults. There had always been a sort of comfort in their consistency. At the root of the flames of aggravation was a deep and sincere affection that stoked their ire more than any mere rivalry possibly could. 

Crowley felt his vexation recede like a tide to expose the layer of vulnerability beneath, and try as he might, there was a moment where he could not shroud himself out of sight. It felt as though they had jumped from the frying pan straight into the fire, and thanks to Heaven’s nefarious schemes, he was forced to face the possibility of emerging from the flames alone. 

It was too much, really. Over six-thousand years of friendship had left something of an impact. For Crowley, that impact had been something demons weren’t really supposed to be able to feel at all. Sincere fondness. A desire for the companionship of a particular being. 

Humans had a word for that. An intimidating four letter word. 

It didn’t really matter what kind it was. Crowley knew that he felt it. It was the true benefactor of his rage, because it was unbearable to even consider losing something so infinitely wonderful, and it was infuriating that even that wasn’t strong enough to truly bring an angel back from the cusp of extinction. A demon, self-admittedly infatuated, but it was a key that could not solve any puzzle. It only ever raised more questions. 

Without looking up, he blindly reached out and gripped Aziraphale’s sleeve, both for the comfort of it and to try and convey some sort of apology. He expected a fearful rejection. However, a soft hand reached forth and gently tilted his chin up so that their eyes could meet. Crowley swallowed thickly at the proximity, though didn’t dare move - he didn’t want to, instead gazing beseechingly upwards as that hand ran back through his wave of hair.

The demon felt his features crease. His chest was so tight it was becoming difficult to breathe. Pulling Aziraphale forwards, he hid the emotion that had crept unwelcome onto his face by resting his forehead against his friend’s belly. When tentative fingers came to rest at the back of his head, he sighed and relaxed a little, though held Aziraphale’s arm in a deathgrip in case - _just_ in case the angel somehow disappeared right from his hands. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and his wings shifted to shield Crowley from the sights of anybody who might have seen him. “Don’t fret. I won’t really fight you with a butter knife.” He paused when Crowley made a quiet, strangled sound into his stomach. Taking a small step back, he boldly took the demon’s face into his hands and guided it upwards once more, wearing the most heartbreaking smile. “It’s going to be all right.”

“You sound confident,” Crowley observed, briefly entranced. “Weird. You’re usually the one worrying. How’re you so calm right now, exactly?”

“You know, I really have no idea.”

“Your hands are boiling hot, angel.”

Regretfully, those fingers finally slipped away from his face. Crowley reluctantly released hold of Aziraphale’s sleeve, instead folding his arms in an indifferent sort of way (though not before discreetly wiping his nose again, which had decided to embarrass him by starting to run).

“I hope that you can forgive me, Crowley. For the Holy Water and … well, this, too. You know, I really just …” Aziraphale fought with his words for a moment, tightly gripping his hands at his front. “I just - I have this propensity to protect, um … it’s the reason I was Created, I suppose, and I’ll be enslaved to it as long as I’m here, with or without Heaven. I thought that I was protecting you by not letting - hm …” he cleared his throat and glanced towards the ceiling. “By not letting you get too close. By not giving you Holy Water.”

“Protecting me from what, Aziraphale?”

“You know. Anything holy. Heaven.” The angel smiled weakly. “Even me.”

“What - angel …”

“And I came to feel so lost, Crowley, you must understand. I’ve spent all my millennia being told what to do, and then suddenly I - _we_ were free, for a time. I just needed time to adjust and then all this happened before I could … um, come to terms with what I was feeling. All I could think of was what they would say or do. You were right, dear. I was dreadfully scared.”

Crowley relented and rose to his feet. With a somewhat jerky movement, he put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and then very stiffly, awkwardly, drew his friend into what could be loosely dubbed an embrace. It was probably the closest that they had ever come to it. In fact, Crowley had only ever embraced somebody when his job had called for it: luring people into a false sense of security, earning their trust, etcetera etcetera. Celestial beings did not really _need_ physical contact, not in the way that humans did. 

But there was no denying that it felt good. It felt _new_. Reaching around Aziraphale’s shoulder, he patted him right in the middle of his back, perhaps a little too hard. The angel, apparently caught off guard, eventually reached forth and copied the gesture, and there they remained for a small time, shifting a bit every now and then as they figured out just how physical affection worked exactly. 

“Ngh,” Crowley uttered, finding his nose somewhere in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. Everything was suddenly so warm and cottony and spongy. If he had still felt anger at all then it certainly disappeared as curiosity and even compassion took over.

He really was a terrible demon. Even more so when he very quietly admitted:

“I’m scared, too. For you. We’ve gotta figure this out.” He sighed worriedly against the curls at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. “Angel.”

“Is that entirely accurate, now?”

“Doesn’t matter. You could be a fire slug in the deepest, most wretched pits of hell and I’d still call you angel, angel.” At that, breathy laughter tickled at his ear pleasantly. “This is, uh. Good.”

“It is, rather,” Aziraphale agreed. “How long do they usually go on for?”

“Not sure, actually.” Deciding it was time to abandon the safety of an angel’s neck, Crowley pulled back and afforded them both some space, simply because he was not entirely confident about what came next, and certainly not confident about his friend’s oddly hopeful expression when they parted. “All right. Heigh ho. Looks like we’ve got our project. When are we going back to London, then? This place - this whole bloody island is all a bit spooky, really.”

“I thought you liked spooky things,” retorted Aziraphale with a softly mocking little pout. “You’re the spookiest thing here, I’d say.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your senses have gone kaput. Oh, you’d hate it. I’ve been picking up on all sorts. Ghosts, ghouls, you name it, it’s skulking nearby somewhere. Dunno about you, I like having a sleep knowing there aren’t actual monsters under the bed. Couch. Whatever.”

The angel’s smile was dazzling, even without his angelic glow. 

“Well, you shan’t be fighting them off alone. I _am_ eager to get back to the bookshop, I think, but … well. My senses may be gone, but I am fairly certain that the kind couple giving us shelter might need our help with something. They look so hopeful whenever we show up.”

“Never mind that you literally just plummeted out of the sky in a ball of fire and lost all your angelic powers? Is that right?”

“Well, we can multi-task!”

Curse those puppy-like eyes. 

“Awright, fine. _Fine_. Just, I don’t know, take it easy. You - when you Fell … it was bad, and you’re still not right. Don’t keep anything from me, I can bloody see it.”

There was a fresh load of feathers on the floor again. When the only response he received was an uncertain kind of look, he grumbled and used a miracle to send the feathers off to the boot of his car. 

There had been times in the demon’s life when he had been very, very scared, but now he was sure that none of it had come close to this.   


* * *

The house was haunted. There was no doubt about it. 

Not just by a ghost, though he hadn’t seen the apparition yet. It was afflicted by grief and guilt, which had taken permanent residency within the crooked old walls like termites to slowly nibble away at the wooden foundations. Just walking into a different room could elicit various emotions, none of them good, something deep and dark and uncomfortable rising up from old floorboards. It was unclear whether the most gloomy sensations were down to the undead, the small, Victorian home, or even the island itself, which was a mystery even to Crowley. Had something terrible happened upon the accursed spit of land long ago? Had a particularly nasty and powerful demon hexed it for whatever reason? The place was like a homing beacon for the weird and terrifying, he could just feel it. 

His more immediate attention was on the home, however. Everything fluctuated up and down, up and down, guilt melding into despair and despair into doubt. It was enough to bring his mood down further than he even thought possible. 

While Aziraphale and Cadence did whatever it was they were doing upstairs, Crowley sat in the living room and stared at the television screen, his leg jittering. It was a horror movie he had absent-mindedly chosen from the rack to occupy his time, though he wasn’t really watching it. There was just a whole lot of screaming and an entirely inaccurate portrayal of possession (those demons were _such_ drama queens). He did take a couple of bells-and-whistles ideas from it, though: birds flying into windows, inexplicable smells, all apparently enough to scare the bejesus out of potential victims. 

The particular but fictional victim was soaring around upside-down like a bat out of Hell by the time Cadence’s husband came home from work. Crowley didn’t even notice he had turned up until the plain looking man nervously edged himself into the demon’s line of sight, waving a little. 

“Yo,” Emery greeted awkwardly. Crowley just raised his eyebrows and turned the volume down on the television. “How’s it going? How’s Arizaphale?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley corrected dully, though his interest was renewed when he remembered something Cadence had said about her husband. Quickly hitting pause on the remote, he straightened from his slouched position and peered at the human with sudden intensity. “What do you see when you look at him? Your wife said you’ve got supernatural gifts or something.”

The man, who Crowley realised vaguely resembled Ned Flanders and not any medium he had ever met, quickly put his backpack down and sat on the couch, rubbing at his knees. 

“Reluctantly. I don’t see much at all, really. Not like with you. Your aura is all, like … deep red. Kind of burgundy? It sort of sucks inwards like a black hole. I can’t see any aura on him. It’s more of a feeling, actually. Er.”

“What kind of feeling?” The demon pressed. “Good? Bad?”

“Well.” Emery gulped, regret plain on his face. “I - I don’t know. Sort of like … like looking into that hearth.” His attention was directed towards the large, stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. It was a cavernous thing that probably had not been used for what it was designed for years. “Bit dusty. Burnt out. I’m not sure what an angel is supposed to feel like, though.”

Crowley was perfectly capable of sensing that, too. He had just been making sure on the off-chance he hadn’t missed something. Disheartened, he gnawed on his lower lip and stared at the human, hoping that he might be able to offer some sort of salvation. 

Desperation at its finest. Nobody knew what to do. Nobody, except …

 _Oscar_.

Surely a Throne at full power would be able to revitalise a Principality, and she definitely owed it to them after that stunt in Heaven. Feeling a flicker of hope spark in his heart, he quickly stood and peered out of the window in case the stupid cat was still hanging around. Infuriatingly, the creature seemed to have the ability to mask her angelic power entirely, meaning that he couldn’t sense her at all, not one measly photon of her light. She could have warped off to another galaxy for all he knew. 

Leaning against the edge of the window, Crowley scowled at the street outside. 

“Angels aren’t meant to feel like that,” he muttered. “They feel like the opposite of what _I_ feel like.”

“Oh. Well … I’m not sure what you are, but you don’t feel that bad at all. It’s kind of, uh … solid? Reassuring, maybe. Did you know your aura changes when you’re around him?”

Genuinely surprised by the observations, the demon glanced over his shoulder at the man, his brow furrowing.

“No. I can’t see it. Obviously.” Curiosity got the better of him. Relenting, he turned and shrugged expectantly.

“It changes colour a little bit. More of a pinkish red, actually. It like all flares up, all bright. You’re - _oh_.” Emery’s eyes widened in realisation, and he at least had the decency to blush and cast his gaze momentarily downwards. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure - I didn’t realise. Just got a right good waft of it from you, bud. That’s … _strong_. Old. Never felt anything like it.”

There was fortune to be found in the fact demons were rubbish empaths when it came to things on the more positive end of the emotional spectrum, otherwise poor Crowley would have found himself ousted as the very worst demon to have ever graced Hell long ago. It was true: his affections were old. Older than he even really knew. He’d had a reputation to maintain with Downstairs, however, and actually daring act on those affections would have been disastrous. So he had just sort of let them be and gotten used to it. 

Like he was the lovey-dovey type, anyway.

When Crowley didn’t answer, Emery looked up and stared at the mysterious figure by the window, summoning up his courage.

“Oh, hey, uh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. Just to pick your brains a mo,” he began, and at the further lack of response, continued, “How much do you know about the afterlife?”

“You wanna know why your kid is still here,” Crowley said, immediately putting two and two together. Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen hauntings before; it was all part of the trade, really, though he had usually witnessed spectres of a more sinister kind. He frowned and looked at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece, feeling Emery’s hopeful eyes upon him. “There’s loads of reasons spirits don’t move on. When did she pass away?”

“Two years ago. In the Summer,” was the quiet reply. 

The demon felt a twinge of sympathy there in his little black heart, which wasn’t actually all that little, depending on who you spoke to. 

“There was a brief span of time two years ago, in the Summer, in which Death was a bit preoccupied. Maybe your kid passed on and was left hanging.”

“D-Death? Like, _the_ Death?”

“Yeah. Azrael. He’s an angel, but only in the physical sense. Bit of a bastard in actuality, but then again, he’s got the worst job of them all.”

Emery looked dazed upon processing that particular tidbit, mouth agape. And then his features creased, a terrible and silent pain there in the lines of his face.

“I took her to the lighthouse all the time,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “She still goes there, looking around. I thought that maybe that was where she would get, uh … picked up. One day. And then I see a star falling down from the sky, but the angel is screaming and - I’ve never heard or felt something so _awful._ I think it scared her away. Could, uh … you know, if he had his powers back … I would really hate to see her go, but I want her to be happy. I just want her to be happy.”

That twinge of sympathy turned abruptly into a flood of heartache for Crowley, and for what felt like the twelfth time that day alone, he felt his throat tighten with melancholy. Such words had been far too easy for him to understand entirely. Feeling suddenly very tired with that horrible ache there in his chest, he had to fight to maintain his cool demeanour as his thoughts became relentless and distracted. 

“You’ve done us a favour,” he answered in a short tone. “If we can get his powers back, I promise that he will personally walk her into Heaven himself. If not, then … well, when I bump into Death again, I’ll remind him to pay this island a visit.”

Met with an expression of warm gratitude, Crowley had to look away. He really felt as though he had been nice enough for one day. In fact, the quota felt uncomfortably breached. All he really wanted to do was swear and curse and burn various things into piles of ash to work out his anger, but no, he had to behave himself for the sake of a reluctant medium and his pregnant wife. 

And for Aziraphale.

A bloodcurdling scream suddenly echoed down the stairs.

A woman’s scream. At first, it seemed as though the DVD had unpaused itself, but the screen was still frozen in place.

Crowley’s heart leapt into his throat. 

Grabbing a candlestick holder off the windowsill, he leapt over the coffee table and scrambled his way up the narrow, winding staircase, almost face planting into the carpet several times in his haste. Emery was following closely behind. 

The pair barged into a small office space. Wielding the candlestick holder like a club, Crowley raised it over his head in preparation to bash any potential demonic invaders right in their miserable faces. 

There were no demons. He stared, trying to figure out what he was looking at. 

Aziraphale was backed into the furthest wall, his tearful eyes as wide as saucers. Cadence, hunched over in the computer chair, was also crying, only her tears were the red of blood. 

The crimson liquid covered her hands and was smeared on her cheeks. There was no obvious injury; the blood was seeping from the inner corners of her eyes, proven when she looked up at her frantic husband, who had shoved himself past Crowley in order to get to her in a sudden fit of rage. The man dropped to his knees and took his wife’s hands into his. 

“Oh my God. Oh my God, did he do something to you? There’s blood everywhere!”

“No! It just …” Cadence hiccuped weakly, staring down at her shaking hands. “The baby was kicking! I let him feel it - he’s an angel, Em, of course I wanted him to! And then _this._ ” She took a deep, steadying breath to calm herself. “I’m fine, really!”

“Fine?!” Emery quickly stood up and rounded on Crowley. “Get him out of here! He Fell, I saw the whole thing! That makes him a demon! What with this horror movie exorcism looking shit! Go on!”

If not for the presence of Cadence, Crowley would have unveiled a truly demonic visage to scare the stupid medium man to within an inch of his life. Instead, he grabbed at the hand jabbing towards him and threw it down before marching over to Aziraphale to take hold of his arm. Taking advantage of the angel’s somewhat stunned state, he pulled him clean out of the room and into the next one along, closing the door shut behind them. 

It was a bedroom, one that was still decorated with flowers and drawings of various Disney princesses. 

“What on Earth happened?” Crowley pressed, concerned. “Angel? What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale was frozen, though his lips moved as if attempting to form words. He wore the general expression of a man who had just seen a ghost, pale and void of focus, though it was not because they had just unwittingly stepped into the bedroom of somebody long since departed.

“The …” he managed, beginning to gesture manically with his hands. “The b- the _b-_ … Crowley!”

“What?! Use your bloody words, Aziraphale!”

“Oh, fucking … fuck!”

“Not those words!”

Clueless panic had dropped in to say hello like an old friend. Crowley watched helplessly as Aziraphale began to flutter about like an agitated hen, some sort of dreadful news slowly taking shape at his tongue. He turned to face the demon again, looking very tired and very conflicted and like all he wanted to do was lie down and have a nice, relaxing sleep. 

“She’s only gone and done it again.”

“Who’s done what again?”

“God!” Was the answer, and Crowley was unsure whether it was a curse or an accusation. “I think I know why we’ve ended up here. That child - I just, I put my hand there and then the knowledge just … _inserted_ itself into my mind out of the blue! And then she started crying tears of blood. Oh, classic one, that one. So very original!”

The sarcasm was not lost on Crowley, who was now more confused than ever. He gesticulated expectantly at his friend. 

“C’mon, Aziraphale!”

“No doubt this place is so cursed that its stifling all trace of it, for now. Crowley.” The angel ran a hand down his face, and then he finally dropped the bombshell. “That lovely lady has been chosen by God to bring a new Messiah into the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Messiah by Prides.


	12. Just a Moment

So, Problem One was destroyed. Problem Two was nowhere to be found. Problem Three was currently rampaging through the English countryside.

And now here was Problem Four, dubbed such because of the implications of enormous change. 

Or _restructure_ , as God had put it. Everything that had happened had led to this strange and sudden revelation: the misinterpreted Message, the reviews, the Falling of the Archangels and Aziraphale. The Message had suggested a shift in dynamics in Heaven, and apparently on Earth, too, but the more one thought about it, the more it became clear that it had been a test as well. A test that the Archangels had failed, but apparently God wasn’t a fan of Falling anymore, not in the classical sense. One could call it character development. Or so it seemed.

But what had Aziraphale failed? Had he actually failed in anything at all, or had he just been the convenient vessel the Archangels had foolishly gathered into? What had _he_ done to deserve being tested? To be hurt? That was all Crowley really cared about, that and the lives they had carefully maintained on Earth, and now it was all being threatened by a problem that he had not for one second seen coming. 

“Huh?” Was all he could manage, spreading his hands questioningly. Aziraphale nodded fervently. 

“Yes, the tears of blood … a reference no doubt to the miraculous weeping statues of the Virgin Mary. It was a sign, though perhaps not in the best taste,” Aziraphale added dryly. “And then I just knew. The knowledge was there. That is a child touched by God, destined to be a leader in times of strife. Do you see, Crowley? This is part of what the change was all along. It was just - the Message was misread.” 

“Tested,” Crowley corrected flatly, running a hand back through his hair, immediately stressed out by the news. “You were all tested. And now they’re gone and you’re here.” 

“Not gone, Crowley. Up there in the - the, you know -“ 

“The vortex?”

“Yes. My body took the brunt of whatever foul concoction it had been created with. I think that unanimous miracles in the heat of the moment stopped it from discorporating entirely. I’m not sure that they have Fallen, either. I would have felt it before they were torn from me.” 

“So Gabriel is still the Messenger?” Crowley surmised cluelessly. “Can’t you just do it? She’s right next door!” 

“Oh, no. No, no, no. That’s not my charge. It’s not part of the package deal. I feel that I’m here for a very different reason.” 

Crowley remembered very clearly then why he had Fallen and why he hadn’t always lamented it; Heaven was full of morons. Powerful and mysterious angels that could turn the cogs of the Universe but could not comprehend breaking a single rule, the War still as fresh in their memories as the time it had happened. Even Aziraphale, who had resented the rules and laws keeping him bound for the past six-thousand years, seemed physically unable to step out of the boundaries of his duties. It wasn’t his fault. He had been Created for a purpose, just as they all had been. 

It beggared belief that the Archangels hadn’t Fallen. It filled the demon with so much utter vexation that he couldn’t think straight. How was that fair? _He_ had never plotted the downfall of millions of angels. He hadn’t even taken part in the War! All he had really done was reject the rules and purposes binding him thanks to the influence of certain rebellious Cherubim, and the next thing he knew he was being yanked from his work on a brand new star and was _Falling_. 

He was forced to wonder whether he had even really stood a chance. Whether he had actually been Created to be an angel at all, destined for a demonic path all along. God’s Ineffable bloody Plan. He wanted to take that Plan and shove it so hard back where it came from that God would be silent for another six millennia, if they were lucky. 

But that was the past, and this was now. He supposed if he hadn’t Fallen then he’d still be up there millions of light years into Space igniting stars and painting constellations, very much alone, very much a different person. Refocusing, he met Aziraphale with a somewhat blank expression. 

“What reason?” He asked, though he had already guessed. 

Before Aziraphale could answer, there came a knocking at the front door downstairs. 

Going by the frantic, muffled voices heard in the next room, there seemed to be no rush to answer it. However, Aziraphale abruptly exited the bedroom and headed quickly down the stairs, leaving yet another trail of feathers in his wake, but Crowley was too distracted to perform the usual clean up act. He followed closely behind and stood threateningly over Aziraphale’s shoulder when he opened the front door. 

A delivery man. _The_ Delivery Man. 

“Nope,” Crowley said at once, then quickly tried to shut the door. Aziraphale stood strategically in the way and gingerly reached out to sign the clipboard held out to him, taking a moment to complete his elaborate, swirling signature. 

“Thanks,” said the Delivery Man, tipping the brim of his cap politely, though his eyes were set on Aziraphale’s wings. “You know what, you two fellas look mighty familiar. Nice little house you got here, by the way. I’ve always wanted to see the Jurassic Coast, ‘n here I am! Ah, here you go.” He picked up the cardboard box at his feet and held it forwards. “You have a good day, now, uh, Mr and Mr Fell.”

The pair spluttered. 

Before Aziraphale could so much as touch the box, Crowley squeezed himself past him and lashed out without taking the time to really think about what he was doing. His hand struck the side of the box and sent it flying to the small patch of grass that made up the garden, much to the surprise of the Delivery Man, who held up his hands and took several steps back.

The item inside the box wouldn’t take no for an answer, however. Just like that, the cardboard began to turn black and curl in on itself as smoke seeped from the corners, and then it burst into flame for a good few seconds. Slowly, the flames died down as the box was burnt to nothingness. 

The sword. _The_ Sword. 

“No,” Crowley snarled, glaring down at it before swinging to face the nervous looking angel at the door. “ _No._ You don’t even like fighting! Let’s just go home, Aziraphale! This is all getting bloody ridiculous!” Grabbing his friend’s hand, he tried to pull him out of the house, intent on leading him to the Bentley and away to safety. “C’mon. Mind your wings. There we go. Let’s get out of here.”

Surprised to be met with resistance, the demon turned back again. All the anger that he had repressed in favour of behaving for the sake of the humans was swiftly rising to the fore like magma threatening to spew from the maw of a volcano. No, this wasn’t right. It wasn’t right at all. It was unjust. Unfair. They had really been through enough already without whatever climactic event the Powers That Be had planned this time.

“What’re you doing?” He asked in a dangerous tone, dismayed as their hands were suddenly parted. “Don’t - don’t you pick it up. Don’t you dare!”

Aziraphale looked at him, then picked it up. 

Crowley exploded. 

“NYAARGHH! AZIRAPHAAALE!” He bellowed with full demonic wrath, his voice suddenly far more monstrous; gravelly and layered with savage tones and emotions. As he slammed his palms onto his own forehead, a vibrant and raging fire consumed his entire form as all that built up frustration had no choice but to physically explode in a display of infernal anger. Somewhere in that slender spire of fire, a demon yelled in a language unknown to mankind. 

The Delivery Man took one look at the demon, tipped his hat again, and quickly departed for his van. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was regarding his friend quite calmly, sighing as he turned the ancient sword this way and that now that he was rejoined with it, getting a feel of its weight again.

“Obviously we’re going to need it,” the angel pointed out. “Really now. Would you mind turning the fire off? Somebody is going to see you!”

“NO! YOUR WINGS ARE STILL OUT. SHUT UP!” Crowley roared from the middle of his flaming cocoon. “WE DON’T NEED IT. WE’RE NOT FIGHTING ANYONE! YOU’RE JUST FORGETTING THE PLAN!”

“What plan is that, dear?”

“THE. PLAN! THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO LEAVE US ALONE, AZIRAPHALE! _WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE LEFT ALONE!_ WE DIDN’T SPEND ALL THOSE YEARS WITH THE WRONG BLOODY ANTI-CHRIST TO LOSE THE EARTH AND GO BACK TO DOING OUR STUPID JOBS FOR STUPID OUT-OF-TOUCH ANGELS AND DEMONS. WE DIDN’T HAVE THE ARRANGEMENT JUST TO GIVE UP NOW THAT THE SECOND BLOODY COMING IS COOKING IN THAT LADY’S BELLY.” Crowley was forced to pause for breath. “EURGHH! YOU CAN’T SSSERIOUSLY BE CONSIDERING PROTECTING JESUS TWO POINT OH JUST ‘CAUSE IT’S WHAT GOD WANTS. LOOK AT YOU! THEY’RE KILLING YOU! YOU JUST GOT TOO USED TO IT!!”

The swirling torrent of fire lashed out and spat embers in all directions. It was only then that Aziraphale flinched and backed off, a moment of terribly genuine fear in his eyes.

Crowley immediately felt sick. Just like that, the fire disappeared and he was trying to make himself look as small as possible, edging towards the open gate with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Yeah, real smooth, he berated himself. It had been a really good idea to burst into flames - even better, in front of an angel that had only just fallen from the sky and burned on the way down.

He was a terrible demon, but an even worse friend.

“I - sorry, I wasn’t …” he attempted, but his words got stuck behind that infernal ball there in his throat. Nobody else in the entire Universe could have put him in such a state. He couldn’t even _think._ The burning storm hadn’t really disappeared, it had just retracted back into his mind like a freakish, secret limb. He could feel that his teeth had sharpened, too, and he quickly turned away to hide them, not knowing what else to do but head for the Bentley.

With a defensive snarl, he slid inside and sat there gripping the wheel. The rubber smoked underneath his reddened hands. Staring unseeingly out of the windscreen, the demon panted and growled and did everything he could to keep himself contained, his serpent eyes wide-blown.

To his further dismay, the passenger side door opened and then Aziraphale was sat next to him, hands neatly clasped in his lap. 

“Don’t look at me,” Crowley hissed viciously, and his tongue flicked. He hated his stupid snake eyes and hiss and the way his skin turned red as anything. He hated looking like a monster in front of the only person who had ever really given him the time of day. He hated how his temper latched onto his friend because he was the only one who would listen. Feeling a steaming tear drip down the length of his long face, he gritted his teeth and continued staring adamantly out of the car. “Please.”

As the veil of anger slowly began to shift, he felt only emptiness behind it. 

There was a long silence. Crowley sat and focused on his breathing. Ahead, the glittering sea could be seen over the roofs of houses; the house was set fairly far up the indecently sized hill. Though the Sun could not be seen past the thick, grey raincloads drawing in from the horizon, its light could just about be made out there over the stretch of water, all oranges and reds. Peaceful. If only the storms would shift. 

“Isn’t this familiar?” Aziraphale said pleasantly, a smile in his voice. “You know. You and I, here in the Bentley. Direness and uncertainty looming overhead. Oh, how we weathered that storm together, Crowley. Two old rocks, unbeaten by the waves. Still standing.” He paused when the demon foggily looked back at him. “Those rocks look very different out there in the sea. Maybe one is bigger than the other. Maybe one has toppled over. But they’re still born of the same stone, aren’t they? And under the waves … under the waves, they’re still joined. They will be that way for millions and millions of years. I think.”

Crowley couldn’t look away from the angel. Taking off his sunglasses, he suddenly didn’t care if Aziraphale could see him. Everything on display were all things that had been seen before. He trusted him, more than he even trusted himself. 

“If one falls, so does the other,” the demon croaked. 

“Maybe,” replied Aziraphale. “But they’ve only really changed shape.”

Before Crowley knew it, they were holding hands. Looking down at where they were joined, he found his skin had righted back to its usual hue, though was sure his cheeks remained a fast red given the sudden heat burning there on his face. The emptiness that had filled him like an inescapable void had been easily batted away, filled to the brim with a mixture of fondness and guilt.

And love. Always love, which had been as reliable as a lighthouse throughout the years, protecting the dark, rugged shores of its island with beams of light. 

“Do you want to go home, Crowley?” Aziraphale continued, a fondness of his own to be heard in those words. “We’ll go. Back to London, I mean.”

The offer was tempting.

Deep down, Crowley knew that it was wrong. He felt as though it was time to start getting fed up of running away.

“No,” he muttered resolutely. “If you think this is important then I’ll be right here. Wherever this goes, we’ll go there together. Like always.”

“Like always.”

The demon shifted back when he noticed his friend was drawing closer. Eyebrows raised, he pressed himself tightly against the window and watched, horrified, as Aziraphale moved impossibly close and actually dared - _dared -_ place a kiss right in the middle of Crowley’s forehead. At a loss for how to react, he remained frozen in place like a cat processing a nearby threat, still feeling the slightly warm sensation there on his skin. Not that he had put up much of a fight. Or any kind of fight at all, really. 

And Aziraphale was still there, close, amused eyes flickering gently.

“You’re too good to me, dear,” said the angel, who suddenly didn’t seem entirely angelic at all, evidently gaining pleasure from the demon’s reaction to a show of affection. “Humans sometimes do that. Didn’t you like it?”

“Ye- _no_.” Poor Crowley insisted weakly, still squashed against the window. “What, me? Serpent of Eden and General Tough Guy? Bah.” He swallowed, feeling a sheen of cold sweat form quickly on his brow. “Eurgh. Maybe just - just do it again, though. Just to be sure.”

The pair considered each other. Should they? Shouldn’t they?

They settled on should. In the wake of intense emotion, it felt right to finally allow themselves this one thing, even if it wasn’t something that they _really_ needed to do. Words alone could sometimes be difficult. Terrifying. Even more so than when a forehead kiss somehow turned into a mouth kiss, funnily enough. Despite the fact it had missed its mark, it was the opposite of a problem.

It was slow. Thoughtful. They leaned in to each other, joined like a couple that had not seen each other for years. It was very nice, too, if a bit awkward at first; Crowley was fighting through a sudden burst of anxiety and surprise and if he were standing up he probably would have passed out. And to think that they had only just initiated their first proper embrace, too. 

A tide of emotions slammed into him like a train. If they were doing this then that meant it had all been reciprocated. One could have had their suspicions but he wasn’t an angel, he couldn’t _sense_ love, and he wondered if Aziraphale had been able to sense his all along there in the cesspool of not-so-evil evil that was his soul. 

It was new, but so very right. Soft. A little bit tingly, too. Maybe celestial entities did not really need to kiss each other, but the corporations seemed to like it. 

Crowley was truly dazed by the time they parted. Falling limply back against his seat, he caught his breath and wondered if there was a spell to preserve a memory and keep it intact for an eternity. 

“Cool,” he said dumbly. “Yeah. Cool.”

Aziraphale returned to his seat, his cheeks a little pinked but otherwise appearing fairly pleased with himself. 

“We should probably go somewhere before her husband comes to massacre us both,” he suggested.

Awakening from his foggy stupor back into reality, the demon cleared his throat and straightened up, his brain suddenly so blank of anything that it took him a moment to remember how to even start his car. 

“Righty ho. What do we do? Find a hotel?” Looking around, he caught his companion’s sudden and mockingly offended expression, hazel eyes glittering. His face fell, despite knowing full well that he was being played with. “No! Not in the - the namby-pamby kind of way, you absolute cretin. We need to attempt some kind of plan, and we definitely need to look for Oscar. I was thinking she might be able to help with your, well, uh …”

“Angelic inadequacies? It might take more than a spell.”

“Right. That. You can hardly go off fighting with only your corporation and a sword to hand. And I’d definitely prefer it if you didn’t go extinct any time soon. Is that clear?”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere, Crowley,” Aziraphale assured him as the Bentley roared to life. “We just need to be ready for anything. No doubt Gabriel is on his way to deliver the Message, and … yes, Marchosias, that demon. I’m sure I only discorporated her.”

With those dangerous prospects hanging over their heads, the angel and demon departed the village of Fortune’s Well. 

Behind them, the ghost of a girl stood in the middle of the road and watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Just You and I by Tom Walker.
> 
> Apologies for the shorter chapter! I have some time off work coming up so hopefully I can focus some more on this fic. Thanks for reading and thanks for over 1000 hits, I’m over the moon!


	13. The Order of Things

Heaven had officially entered shutdown. 

Ramiel, once the Guide of the Dead and now suddenly the highest authority in the Third Sphere, sat at Gabriel’s desk and stared blankly at the lesser archangel stood opposite her. The news spun uselessly in her mind, trying to find purchase but failing.

“I’m sorry, what?” She asked, hoping that she had merely imagined it all.

“I said the angels have stopped working,” said Jophiel, who wasn’t designed to be a bearer of bad news, but those particular individuals weren’t playing ball. “Not all of them yet, but most. There’s paperwork flooding the corridors, Your Divinity. They’re just up and leaving their desks!”

“Where are they going? What are they doing?!”

“They’re just, um …” Jophiel anxiously held her clipboard to her chest. Despite the evident worry on her face, her voice sounded strangely cheerful; that was her designation, happiness and beauty, her impossibly long hair threaded with flowers. She had once spread such things on Earth, but she had been given the job of a paperwork auditor for the last one-thousand years. “Well, they’re outside. On strike, actually.”

“On strike?!”

Now, Ramiel had always been one of the more well-intentioned Archangels, but having been relegated to the Pearly Gates since humans had started dying, she was not the most informed of just about, well … anything. She was, for the most part, ignorant as to why the angelic masses might have been so upset, but that did not mean she was not sympathetic, either. It was just that she had never been used to her potential, and had never really had the opportunity to learn and grow as the others had. 

Now that opportunity was here, and she sensed there was a certain importance in how she might utilise it. Talk about being thrown into the deep end. What was she supposed to do without Gabriel and the others there to make the important decisions? Would St. Peter ever forgive her for leaving him to handle the queue of souls alone?

“Yes,” confirmed Jophiel. “Protesting. Peacefully rebelling. Forming unions! Oh, it’s a tale for the ages,” she sighed happily, ever the romantic. “On that note, I’m on strike, too. I’m going to go and build the garden of my dreams out on the celestial plains!”

Ramiel abruptly stood up, desperate. “No, wait! Tell me what it is the angels need from me, please! We can’t carry on like this. If Heaven stops working, _Earth_ stops working!”

Already by the door, the lesser archangel elegantly spun on her feet and smiled sweetly at her superior, all sunshine and flowers and everything beautiful. Ramiel found herself wondering whose idea it was to hide her in the audit department.

“What do they need?” Sang Jophiel, and she hummed with thought. “I suppose they need an Archangel. You’ll find the conditions of their return to work on your desk. Good luck!”

Quickly delving into the untidy reams of paperwork gathering on the desk, Ramiel eventually found an archaic looking scroll tied neatly with a ribbon. Alone again, she sat down and unfurled it, finding a flowery script addressed to her.

_To the Highest Authority of the Third Sphere, Archangel Ramiel, Deliverer of Souls, Blessed be her Name._

_We, the collective of Heaven, have found ourselves discontent with the conduct of Management, not merely for the poorly executed reviews and the destruction we narrowly avoided, but for the frankly terrible working conditions we have found ourselves in for the past several millennia._

_Perhaps, Your Excellency, you might understand what it is to have all of your potential and skill sets overlooked in favour of keeping the peace. We consider you one of our own, even if you stood there in the amphitheatre prepared to observe the reviews without protest. We might grace your most holy presence with forgiveness if you instead observe our proposed conditions._

_The conditions are thus:_

  * __Cut down the paperwork.__


  * _That we might, on occasion, return to the purposes for which we were Created._


  * _Dress down Fridays._


  * _The return of the Principality Aziraphale to the Heavenly Host._


  * _That we are informed of the Messages of God and allowed to submit our interpretations for consideration, lest we are almost obliterated a second time._


  * _That you form a council of representatives so that the voices of all angelkind can be heard._



_We hope that you find these conditions agreeable and eagerly await your letter of response._

_Blessed Be!_

Lowering the letter down to the desk, Ramiel stared glumly down at it. She wasn’t entirely sure what emotion had brewed upon reading it, but it panged uncomfortably within her like a sombre bell. Having come to a heart-wrenching realisation, she sat and allowed the uncomfortable feeling to wash over her, staring at the letter with increasing disappointment.

Like her, the angels had been suffering in silence for far too long, simply because they had believed it all to be the way of things. Perhaps they had feared they might Fall for going against the status quo, and it was a reasonable thing to be afraid of following the horrors of the War, but Ramiel was beginning to suspect that Fallings were no longer on the cards. The other Archangels had brought their fates on themselves, and as for that Principality, Aziraphale … she understood why the angelic collective wanted him back for turning the tides of fate, but she wasn’t sure even she could perform a miracle like that. 

She pulled up a clear tablet and stared down at a blank document, trying to think of some sort of feasible response. What could she say? What could she _do_? She had spent most of her existence shepherding souls and ensuring the safe running of that particular department, and now this?! Oh, how she missed the others and their wisdom. Their collective knowledge! Even if they had never really listened to her in turn, she needed their wisdom now more than ever.

She decided that the angels would not get a letter. They would get a plan. 

And so, many hours later, she emerged out into the cloudy plains and found millions of expectant angels stood waiting. Strangely, she felt gratitude upon seeing them there; all of them together could have easily overwhelmed a single Archangel, bullied her into submission and taken over for themselves, but they hadn’t. They had trusted her to listen, and listen she had. 

Ramiel opened her six wings and hovered over the endless crowd, unfurling the Scroll of Conditions in her hands. Increasingly nervous, she cleared her throat. 

“Angels of the Third Sphere,” she spoke, and her voice resonated sweetly across the realm so that all could hear her. “I have read your conditions and would like to suggest a different interpretation to the Lord’s Word. A restructure that will not end in more angels lost but instead something, uh … more productive?” Wincing, she continued, “Your happiness! Fear not, the shadows of injustice will not hold any of us back. Um, to start … paperwork is out the window. Mostly. Everything is moving on to a more digital format -“

Ramiel was surprised to find herself interrupted by a sudden roar of deafening cheers. Unable to get a word in edgeways, she hung there in the sky and patiently waited for the cries of unbridled joy to cease, both blown away and amused by the enthusiastic reaction to mere paperwork alone. When the angels quietened down, Ramiel had to look back at the scroll to remember where she was. 

“Less paperwork means more time for you all to go about your true God-given duties, or to enjoy recreational activities. Go and, I don’t know, explore the Earth. The Universe. Just ensure that your work makes a positive impact on humankind, always. And I will of course allow submissions of interpretation, and will be taking applications for a council of representatives. And, yes,” she sighed heavily, “dress down Fridays.”

That was met with yet more explosive cheering across the plains of shifting clouds. From her vantage point, Ramiel could see halos being thrown into the air like hats. Secretly, she was looking forward to wearing something a little more comfortable than her golden suit come next Friday.

“There is only one condition I can’t meet,” she said tentatively once they had silenced enough. “The return of the Principality Aziraphale. As perhaps … necessary as his sacrifice was, even I don’t have the power to bring a Fallen back into the light. Perhaps a compromise might be made? I will search for him and ensure his wellness in a show of Heaven’s gratitude. I hope that you might forgive my inability to make this condition a reality. And … of course, for meeting the reviews with silence.” The Archangel’s features were entirely sorrowful, and she placed a hand over her chest. “I will never forget this lesson for as long as I exist: that silence does not and will never bring change. Thank you for your time, angels.”

Hovering there in the sky for several awkward moments, Ramiel gulped and eventually soared back into the offices, stuffing the scroll back into her pocket as anxiety got the better of her. All of those faces - looking right at her! Seas upon seas of them! She must have looked something of a fool up there, nervous as the day she was Created, and it was no wonder that she had been met in turn with silence at the end. 

Then she heard something that she never thought she would hear.

Pausing at the reception desk, Ramiel turned slightly, at first thinking that she was only imagining things. 

No, there it was. Choirs of angels singing songs that had not been heard there in Heaven for centuries. In amongst them, Ramiel heard _her_ name being sung in true holy reverence, and she was suddenly filled with a hope unlike anything she had ever felt before. 

Maybe she _could_ do this. 

They had forgiven her. They were singing, sweet and loud as songbirds. Heaven really was headed in a new and better direction, so long as they all worked together in the wake of the tragedy of all that had occurred. 

There would not be another war. 

Ramiel leant against the reception desk. If she could cry, she would have. 

* * *

“Heaven must be falling to pieces without us!” Declared Archangel Michael.

She stalked back and forth in front of a grand altar. They had taken shelter in a European cathedral that night having made it as far as the continent. However, as whatever was left of their energies waned in their travels, they had been forced to find somewhere they wouldn’t be harassed by demons again while they recuperated. They had already lost one of their own to Hellish forces, and sorrow enveloped them as night fell.

Sandalphon was gone. Ramiel, the youngest and most inexperienced of them, had been left to operate Heaven alone. Gabriel had fallen into an uncharacteristic silence. The rest of them were distraught and clueless as to where they were supposed to be going, what they were supposed to be doing. All they could do was follow their leader in his mission across the globe and hope in vain that he might tell them where he was leading them to. 

Worst of all, they were without bodies. Without _miracles_. They were exposed in their truest forms, unable to cause humans to forget that they had seen them, and so were forced to travel in the shadows. It was difficult to blend in when one had many wings and halos and four arms each, all of them appearing more alien than humans could really comprehend - at least, they would have been incomprehensible if only they were still endowed with their light, which had since been stripped away.

Raguel, the Observer of Justice, stroked at his wizard-like beard with his claws, hollow eyes fixed on Michael.

“I think that if Heaven was in shambles, we would know it by now,” he said in his low, monotone voice. “No stars have snuffed out. No more angels have fallen. Things seem to be ticking over.”

Michael scoffed and continued pacing, her form so taut that it seemed she might topple over at any moment. 

“Psshhah! We _are_ Heaven! They can’t possibly just be …” she waved a hand loosely, “ … carrying on! They have never been without us! All Ramiel has ever done is hold hands with dead humans, the poor thing. They will tear her apart now that she’s up there all alone. They will destroy her for -“ Michael paused, her four hands balling into fists. When she spoke, it was through her teeth. “Our misinterpretation. Our _mistake._ We must find a way to return to Heaven instead of going on a wild goose chase around the planet! Do _you_ at least agree, Uriel?”

The other Archangel was stood quietly on the dais, arms folded in a manner that radiated aloofness. The golden flecks that had once shone brightly on their face had since faded away.

“I think Gabriel knows something that he isn’t telling us,” they said impassively, looking towards their leader, who was stood at the very peak of the hall gazing up at the enormous stained glass window of Jesus Christ.

“I agree!” Piped in Sariel the Warmaster, and he stomped a foot in the manner of a soldier and did an about-turn, glaring at them all with his hands behind his back. “We must return to Heaven in case war breaks out! Again! We can’t allow Hell to acquire more fodder! Gabriel, tell us where we are going at once!”

“Is that how it’s gonna be, huh?” Gabriel murmured, still staring thoughtfully up at the window. “You really wanna challenge me, cupcake?”

The Archangels looked at each other. It wasn’t totally clear just who Gabriel was talking to. He hadn’t said much at all since their unceremoniously ungraceful crash landing in the Australian Outback, and had assumed he was festering in the guilt silently shared between them, though it seemed that there was more on his mind than just the immediate past. Apparently, whatever it was was not for them to know.

“No!” Sariel spluttered anxiously, taking a submissive step back. “I just want to know what we’re _doing_. Without order, the angels could be warring with each other while we speak!”

“Well, they’re not,” Gabriel returned, and then he faced them all, smiling so passive-aggressively that they all inwardly cringed. “They’re not. Raguel is right. The sky isn’t falling, now, is it? Everything is the same, only we’re not there. Anybody wanna guess what that means?” Met with clueless silence, he continued, “It means that _we’re_ the ones that were failing. _Us._ It’s a hard pill to swallow, right? Believe me, I know.”

“Well!” Michael said haughtily, though her sharp voice softened just a little. “It wasn’t our fault that we were just left to it. Even the Second Sphere seems to have just disappeared! If it wasn’t for the Throne appearing, I’d have thought they had all just moved on.”

“But it is our fault what we made of the situation. We took God’s Word and turned into into an act of violence.”

“To keep the order! For the greater good of Heaven! If it wasn’t for Aziraphale -“

“Aziraphale practiced his divine purpose,” Gabriel argued, though spoke as if the words were physically painful to say. He winced and gritted his teeth at the mere memory of the Principality, his stupid smile and nervous mannerisms. “He was protecting what was right.”

Uriel muttered something under their breath, then said, “He loves the demon Crowley. We felt it while we were joined with him. He should be destroyed for such blasphemy alone.”

“We already tried to destroy him, once!” Countered Gabriel, becoming increasingly irate. “You all remember how that went, right? If God gave a righteous shit about his love for a demon then he would have already Fallen. Maybe - and, ya know, bear with me, here - maybe we should stop focusing on what isn’t important and focus on what _is_ important, which is kind of our _job_. Should any angel that shows us love and mercy be destroyed, too? You catching my drift, here? God is love. Even if that love is, well … questionable.” The Archangel surveyed his underlings as if daring them to argue, but none of them did. None even met his eyes. “All of Creation has a dark side. We thought that Hell was ours, that demons were the dark to our light, but that’s wrong. We are capable of bad things, clearly. We’re not perfect. We contain Her love and Her wrath. We became the very antithesis of what we were supposed to be and we just couldn’t see it! Not until all the light was pulled from our eyes.”

The Archangels stood in rapt silence, gathering before the altar to bear witness to their leader’s wisdom. Daring behold him, they were stunned to see that a golden light was burning gently at Gabriel’s core, as if somebody had switched on a bulb in the centre of his abdomen.

“Raguel, maybe it’s about time you pull that staff outta your ass and pipe up when you witness injustice, okay?” The Prince of Archangels commanded, moving to stand before his brethren like a suited hotshot about to make a grand presentation. “Sariel, the only wars aren’t the ones that involve fighting, so buck up, muttonchops. Uriel, Michael, offer me a different point of view next time, will you? Ya know, before I make another regrettable decision.” That golden light was expanding, crawling across Gabriel’s chest and down his limbs like golden blood. “With or without God, we’ve always got each other, and as the oldest and some might say _wisest,_ I’m telling us all to get our shit together.”

That golden light exploded outwards from his centre, igniting the Archangel with a blessed, angelic glow. His halos burst into white flames and were blinding to look at, and so were his suddenly violet eyes, flickering with an old and vibrant fire that had seemingly never really left. The air around him was scented with frankincense, and everything in his near vicinity sparkled and glowed, touched by the eternal fire that seeped out from his celestial form. His six wings and four arms spread to display his divine terror and beauty like a peacock might show off its feathers. 

“The bitch is back,” Uriel commented dryly. Michael gave them a withering look.

“Why are the rest of us still stuck like _this_?”

“Shut up a minute. I’m getting something,” Gabriel snapped, and he hit his temple with his palm a few times. After a moment of intense concentration, the fire in his eyes flared and he turned his head upwards, his features falling strangely serene. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Sariel barked. “Would you mind telling us how you just revived like that?!”

“You’ll figure it out. I know where we’re going. That star - I thought it had been saying something but now I can understand it. Just like before.”

Up there, on the stained glass window, the Star of Bethlehem shone in silver, angels trumpeting at its presence. It went unheralded by the Archangels, however, who stared up at their leader with a mixture of awe, jealousy, and irritation. Gabriel stood before them and smiled, and it was the purest sort of smile he had worn for a long, long time. 

“I see everything, now. The restructure and what it meant. And now I have a new Message to deliver.” He placed all of his hands together in prayer, turning his smile towards the ceiling of the cathedral. His eyes could perhaps see things that the others could not, for he appeared as if witnessing something of extraordinary beauty past those stone structures and gargoyles. “It’s nearly time.”

The others glanced at each other, then shrugged. 

Well, it wasn’t like they had anything else to do. 

* * *

“There’s a new star in the sky, m’lord.”

Beelzebub grimaced upon being interrupted. Lowering the tea cup ze had been performing a sort of dastardly divination with, ze glared at Dagon from the princely black throne in the meeting room. The lesser demon was carrying a pile of messy paperwork, though quickly dropped it onto the table where it flopped into an unorganised mess. 

“What’s it look like, then?” Beelzebub asked in the general tone of somebody who could not care less. 

“Well, like … like a star, Your Vileness.”

“I _meant_ ,” the Demon Prince began, then took a short, bracing breath, “is it an evil kind of star or a good one?” After a pause, ze elaborated, “I’m askin’ if it’s one of ours or one of theirs.”

Dagon snivelled and giggled nervously. “Oh! Well, it’s gotta be one of theirs, innit? There’s been no ominous stars on the agenda for a while. Anyways, it seemed to bother some of the look-outs. Sayin’ it makes them feel all uncomfortable n’ that. What do you fink it means?”

Frowning, Beelzebub peered into the cup and inspected the tea leaves again. They had since shifted shapes: one of the dark blobs now resembled a star and the other vaguely resembled a demon looking into a tea cup. Ze had never excelled in divination, and had only resorted to it out of a genuine cluelessness. Satan had not given any of them instruction since their last meeting.

Speak of the devil.

Feeling a familiar and rotten sense of external dread crawl over zir skin like flies, Beelzebub stood from the throne and clasped zir hands behind zir back after tossing the useless tea cup aside. Dagon quickly followed suit, and the pair barely reacted as the floor to the entire department began to tremble and shake thunderously, announcing the arrival of their demonic overlord.

And he wasn’t best pleased. 

_BEELZEBUB._

The entire wall of the room was pulled away, revealing Satan in his full glory, King Kong-sized and ugly and completely furious. He roared deafeningly and showered rains of boiling hot spittle down upon any unfortunate demons passing by below, then he grabbed the side of the building with his impossibly sized claws, glaring into the room with ginormous red eyes. He huffed through his nostrils and spurt out two puffs of searing flame. 

“BEELZEBUB!” Satan bellowed, using his real voice as opposed to the equally loud one he reserved for minds alone. “THE FOOLS COPIED OUR IDEA.”

Beelzebub wiped a glob of demon spit from zir eye. “What idea’s that, Luce?”

“THERE IS A SECOND COMING!”

“Oh. Well, I mean, we kinda copied them first.”

“IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW! THIS SUPPOSED GREAT CHANGE THAT WAS COMING - IT’S ANOTHER CHILD! IT’S OUR UNHOLY DUTY TO DISRUPT THE PLAN, SO COME UP WITH A SUGGESTION!”

Beelzebub’s ears were ringing. Digging a finger into one of them, ze regarded the Big Boss with as much enthusiasm as a rock.

“We sent Marchosias to kill the angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley,” the Prince suggested coyly. “They’ve got a habit of being where stuff is happening. What’s the bet we’ll find them all together? Send a message to her and have her destroy the family, too. We’ll kill two birdzzz with one stone.”

Satan’s enormous face shifted into contentment at that, but then he looked agitated again.

“BEELZEBUB.”

“Yeah?”

“WILL YOU TELL ME WHY THERE ARE MILLIONS OF DEMONS OUT HERE PROTESTING?”

Blinking with surprise, the Lord of Flies slowly turned to regard Dagon, who was decent enough to look somewhat sheepish as they gestured down at the enormous pile of paperwork on the table. Dagon grinned fearfully and started to back away, glancing between their two very powerful and very annoyed superiors. 

“I was about to say, after the whole star thing,” they whimpered, “there’s an awful lotta paperwork buildin’ up in the corridors all of a sudden.”

On the ground, the splattered tea leaves slowly changed shape. They came together, dark forms building until they created a picture that not one demonic soul paid attention to.

On the ground, a sword pierced the torso of a serpent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Brave New World by Kalandra.


	14. The Colour of Storms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some vague allusions to intimacy in this chapter but nothing to warrant a higher rating.

After pulling up outside what Google Maps told him was a B&B but actually looked more like a theatrical haunted house, Crowley quickly exited the Bentley and rushed around the other side of of it to open the door for Aziraphale, who needed help getting out without damaging his wings further. Crowley cast a quick miracle to make the wings invisible, though could not hide them in the true sense. He took his friend’s arm and showed him into the building hurriedly to get out of the worsening rain.

They were greeted by a teenage girl who barely looked at them when they came in. She looked the part, indeed; straight black hair and extravagant, dark makeup, and she was filing down her shiny black talons. Crowley took to her style at once.

“Evening. Got space for a night?” He asked, leaning against the counter and keeping himself turned towards Aziraphale. Still reeling somewhat from the moment of intimacy they had shared not half an hour ago, he had to fight to pull his eyes from the angel for five minutes.

“Sorry,” the young lady replied dully, inspecting one of her glistening claws. “Got no room.”

Crowley found himself smirking, mostly out of frustration. “Oh, I get it. No room at the inn. That’s funny, ain’t it? Which one of us is Mary and which is Joseph?”

“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes elegantly before smiling back at the girl. “So sorry to have bothered you. I suppose it would take a _miracle_ of sorts to find room this late.”

“Right you are, angel.”

The young lady was looking at them now, one thin eyebrow arched. Before she could say anything, however, there came sudden bustling at the top of the narrow staircase nearby; an older pair were lugging their hold-alls and suitcases down it with some difficulty, bickering as they went. Once the luggage was all in the small foyer, the wife stormed over and frowned as she fought with her frilly umbrella.

“My husband has had quite enough of all the clanging of the pipes and what have you. We’re leaving to find somewhere far less haunted than this decrepit little - whatever it is. And maybe you should try smiling every once in a while! Good day to you!”

Immediately annoyed by them, Crowley cursed them with a night of bad luck as they left.

“Smiling’s overrated,” he said to the girl. He stuck his hand into his jacket pocket and produced at least four fifty pound notes, dropping them down onto the counter. “Keep the change. We’ll take their room. Don’t worry about cleaning it, I’m sure we’ll make use of the empty wine bottles and leftover marital problems.”

The girl immediately perked up at that, smirking, and quickly stuffed the notes into her pocket. 

“Welcome to Easton Heights B&B. What would you sirs like for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Full, with a pot of Earl Grey if you’d be so kind. Angel?” Turning to look at him, he immediately got the sense that something was wrong; his friend, or perhaps more accurately now his other half, had paled all of a sudden and seemed somewhat unfocused. Crowley quickly stood up straight and took his arm, then glanced at the young girl. “Same again. What room is it? It’s been a hellish day.”

“First on your left. Sleep well, gents.” Apparently unperturbed by their lack of luggage and the sword Aziraphale was holding, the girl went back to filing her sharp nails.

The house was somehow cramped just like everywhere else on the cursed island, despite having appeared larger on the outside. There were still many Victorian embellishments to it which had not been repaired or replaced since they were built; original floorboards creaked under the rugs, and strangely spooky paintings hung on the thick, bottle-green walls. There was a slight smell of cobwebs and mould. 

Crowley led Aziraphale up the stairs and into the first room on the left. It was a small space, though boasted an impressive bay window with a view of the sea and the storm clouds swirling above it. A black chandelier hung partially over a king-sized bed. Quickly shutting the door behind them, the demon rounded on Aziraphale and released the miracle making his wings invisible.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, walking a slow orbit of the angel and looking him up and down. Concerningly, his partner’s skin was pale and clammy though bore flushed spots. 

“Just took a sudden turn,” Aziraphale explained with a nervous huff, and he ambled over to the messy bed to sit down on the bottom edge. He fanned himself with his hand. “I’ve felt so strange since I landed, but now it’s just getting worse.”

Unsure what to do, Crowley dithered for a second, then headed for the en suite to run a flannel under cold water. Emerging back into the bedroom, he gestured for Aziraphale to lie down by patting one of the pillows. Once the angel did as commanded, the demon very carefully dabbed at that clammy forehead, then folded the flannel into a strip to rest there.

Worry clawed at him internally. Angels couldn’t get sick, and yet this seemed the closest thing to it. He might have been convinced it was the corporation if miracles had not failed to heal him so far. 

“You look like a roasted lobster. Take your coat off.”

Aziraphale’s nose turned up at that. “Roasted lobster,” he repeated incredulously, though sat up to take off the coat and waistcoat that Crowley had created with a miracle. His attire generally resembled that which he usually wore, though with a few wrong or missing details; it could only be presumed his beloved coat was somewhere in Heaven. 

“Are you sure you’re in a fit state to go defending Mary II and the holy jelly bean?” Crowley asked flatly, pushing the other back down onto the pillow. He sat on the edge of the bed and adjusted the flannel, frowning heavily.

“It’s a bit more than a jelly bean, Crowley. She seemed near enough full term. And - well, if Hell learns of them, they will be in grave danger, and no other angels were sent here, you know. Only me. If there are others, I certainly can’t sense them. Not that - not that I _could_.” Aziraphale blinked up at the demon worriedly. “I’m not doing this because it’s what Heaven would want, you know. I just think - it would be best for the world -“

“I know, angel. I know it’s best for the world. I just don’t see why it has to be us. Not really fair, is it? Nobody wants a demon trying to protect the Second Coming. Hell is gonna have a bloody field day, I tell you that now.”

“Ah …” Aziraphale sighed, briefly closing his eyes. “They’ll consider you even more of a traitor for this, won’t they?”

“Well, yeah. Not very demonlike, is it? Helping bring the next Jesus into the world. But, look. Tonight we forget about Heaven and Hell. We forget everything outside. If we think of a way to get your holiness back, Hell isn’t going to mess with me. I’ll just have to spend more time around you, which was already, you know …” Crowley shrugged casually. “It was on the cards.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up somewhat at that, and he managed a coy little smile.

“Oh, was it?” The bastard even had the nerve to flutter his eyelashes playfully, and then the sheer gall to make what could only be described as a smooching sound. “Mwah-mwah. Well! Who’s the roasted lobster, now?”

The demon was mortified at the sudden flush occupying his neck and ears. Temporarily incapable of thinking of a comeback, he reached down and firmly pinged one of Aziraphale’s braces hard against his chest.

“Ow!”

“Are you making fun of me, angel? At a time like this?”

“At a time like this,” the angel confirmed, as flirtatious as he was brazen. 

Completely taken aback, Crowley gaped cluelessly at him. There was that damned expectant expression again, peering up at him like he might look at a particularly decadent cake in a bakery window. He found his heart was beating that much faster - perhaps it knew something that he didn’t. It felt as though he really didn’t know much at all. 

Fingers curled into his tie and pulled him down. Any puzzled thoughts were all but thrown out of the window when the pair came together in another kiss. There was something different about it, this time; the pace was faster, it became increasingly messy, and they made small sounds against each other’s mouths, pressing into each other as if it were their last night on Earth. Crowley was grateful that his body seemed to know what to do. 

It was nice. Very nice, in fact. He wasn’t sure why, but it was. It was no wonder that Aziraphale had initiated it, pleasuremonger that he was. 

But something about it felt wrong, too, on the inside. Crowley became increasingly aware of the unnatural heat of Aziraphale’s skin, and caution manifested there in his mind, interrupting the pleasant stream of nothingness that had since taken hold. 

Curious fingers removed the sunglasses and then tickled down his neck - oh how good it felt to be touched like that - and drifted past the confines of his collar, splaying somewhere near his collarbone. Before that hand could venture further, Crowley reluctantly caught it and eased it back out again. 

“Angel -“

Aziraphale pulled his hand back as if burnt. Just like that, the moment was over. Rapidly retreating, he threw a nervous and apologetic smile at the demon and then quickly looked away, sitting up to hold his hands tightly at his bent knees. The poor thing suddenly looked so wretched, his skin flushing further past the feverish blotches already present. 

“Oh, dear. Pardon me, Crowley. That was - I’m afraid I don’t quite, um …”

“It’s fine,” Crowley insisted, panting slightly. Standing up, he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and felt how hot the skin was there, as if the affliction had transferred for a moment. “It was nice. It’s just - you’re not really yourself.”

Aziraphale regarded him with a sort of kicked-puppy look, which tugged at his demonic heart with far more effect than it reasonably should have.

“I am myself. What else would I be? I - I know that was bold of me, and I’m sorry, but -“

“I meant that you’re upset. _I’m_ pretty upset, to be quite bloody frank. If we’re looking for a way out, I don’t think that’s it.”

The stifled silence was filled only by rain hammering against the wide bay window. It was a good kind of sound, relaxing in any other situation. Out there on the dark, grey horizon, forked lightning flashed silently over the churning sea like claws reaching down from the tempest above. That shifting potion of silvers and greys reminded him of the true colour of his angel’s eyes, but the ones that gazed at him were drained of that startling ink. Still, however, they were as sorrowful as the rain. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again, quietly. It was very wrong coming out of his mouth. In certain matters, tact had never particularly been a strong suit of his, especially when it came to lowering the walls of pride enough to actually apologise, but there it was, so awfully sincere that Crowley felt the rekindling of rage in his gut.

“Stop apologising,” he said sharply, then immediately regretted it. 

If he could have pulled his own stupid heart out of his chest without killing his own corporation, then he would have. He knew, however, that the pain it felt went far deeper than that. It resonated within his very being, pooling there like a swamp of fear. Fear was what his kind was supposed to get off on spreading! And yet something within him broke on seeing an angel in tears. Again.

“I make s-such a mess of things,” the angel choked out, curling his legs up to his chest. Tears leaked out of his eyes like a dam had been abruptly removed. “The s-sword. Marchosias. The falling. And I have put you in danger every time. I’m a terrible angel, Crowley! It’s no wonder She doesn’t want me back. And you - Hell will destroy you if they catch so much as a whiff of what is going on …” That seemed to ruin Aziraphale further, whose wings shook and shed yet more feathers onto the bedspread. “You truly can’t see how good you are, can you? I have no idea how God could have just … And all I can do is paw at you like some licentious imp!”

The angel had done a remarkable job of keeping himself together, considering. It had almost seemed like the falling was a mere dream. All walls, no matter how strong, would come crumbling if shaken enough, and Crowley recognised that crippling self-doubt and despair all too well. It had bounced back like an ancient echo, affecting somebody who had never really deserved it in the scheme of things, and yet there they were, torn apart and blaming themselves for every bad thing that had ever happened.

God moves in mysterious ways, some would say. Crowley despised that expression dearly. God didn’t know what it was like, not really. God didn’t know what it was like to be left alone. She didn’t know what it was to feel a heart break. She didn’t know what it was to slowly, but surely, have it pieced back together. She didn’t know what it was to see the stitches begin to wither away. In the face of adversity, she had combatted it with rage.

Like him.

Maybe She did know. 

Crowley slid onto the bed. He had no real words to say; there were no words in any language that he could have spoken just then. Shuffling to Aziraphale, he sat directly behind him so that his front was flush to the other’s back, legs astride him. His hands moved to the bases of strong wings, touching the joints there, and then his arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s middle. With a sharp sigh, he rested his chin against the angel’s shoulder.

Unseen to the physical world, their consciousnesses touched. Crowley felt Aziraphale gasp, but he was not met with any resistance. Slowly, cautiously, the demon slipped into a space that was once holy enough to destroy him at such proximity, or at least cause a very, very big bang. Just like before, when he had awoken Aziraphale from his fall-induced slumber, he began to feed fragments of his affection into that barren landscape. Fond memories, moments of ridiculousness, the sense of togetherness they had shared for thousands of years, the fear of being unable to act upon it, the joy in those times of relief. 

He felt Aziraphale twitch against him, but there was still no resistance. The memories kept coming: the laughter, the arguments, everything that had ever made them _them_. The moments that they were good, the moments that they were bad, the times they had been completely and utterly inept. The acts of kindness and of pride that could not solidly define them as angel and demon. The knowledge that flaws could be beautiful, that Aziraphale was the very best of them because his flaws were perfect, that Crowley - Crowley? - was similarly beautiful in his chaos …

Their presences were mingling by then. No thought belonged to just one of them alone. It was unprecedented, impossible, and yet the demonic forces had no holy power to contend with and it made a moment of tender cosmic intimacy possible. Crowley could feel everything that the angel felt and vice versa, and he should have hated the idea of being so incredibly exposed but he really, really didn’t, because there was a mutual trust joining them like interstellar thread and the demon suddenly knew with full certainty that _he_ was as loved and trusted as he felt in turn. 

Maybe they had never said it. They had never really needed to. Words were more of a human construct. There it was, to be felt rather than heard or seen, and Crowley was sure he had never been touched by anything so beautiful, even when he had shared the presence of God. 

God is love, angels often said. In Crowley’s bubble of existence, it was Aziraphale that was love. And he was content for it to be that way, no matter what Hell or Heaven thought of it. 

And then he felt something that shouldn’t have been there. Something alien and hot that jabbed at him like a thorn. Hissing, Crowley sought that energy, finding something dreadfully familiar about it, and just as he wandered into a dark cloud of the angel’s darkest and most repressed attributes - everything that _could_ have made him a demon, if his fortune tipped such a way - all the anger and the need for _more, more, more_ , all the vanity and pride, it was a home for a foreign body, an infection spreading a disease.

A spark of Hellfire. 

In his mind’s eye he could see himself - disastrous, a serpentine black hole - wrapped around something equally as horrifying, the vague shape of an angelic creature leaking blackened essence from its eyes and mouth. He could see the spark of Hellfire, tiny but fatal, lodged right there in the heart of his partner, as much a sacrifice as it was self-inflicted. Crowley put a clawed hand over the infected heart while their consciousnesses were still joined and pulled that niggling little thorn straight out of the angel’s celestial body. 

“OUCH!”

The union was over. The shock of it was highly uncomfortable. Hastily pulling apart and reassembling themselves back into their own corporations, the pair jolted and jerked apart.

Crowley opened his eyes and found his hand outstretched. There, burning in his palm, was a flame the size of a small pea, not enough to kill immediately but enough to burn a cosmic entity out from the inside. Having seen the state of his partner’s truest form, he dreaded to think how much time they might have had left if the spark had not been pulled. Scowling down at it, the demon closed his hand and banished the Hellfire back to the deepest pits of Hell.

“That hurt, Crowley!” Aziraphale whined, now half-sat on the bed and holding his chest in a panicked fashion.

“Oh, you’ll live,” the demon muttered, though with a good deal of relief. “Made it quick, like pulling off a plaster. How do you feel?”

For some reason the angel flushed again, this time purely out of an absurd and endearing embarrassment.

“Well, I … it was very nice, if that’s what you’re asking -“

Crowley groaned exasperatedly and lurched forwards to grab Aziraphale by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. 

“Not that! You! Did it change anything?”

“I-I don’t -“

“Listen to me, angel. Through you I just felt a lot of amazing things, and I understand. I see why I’m worthy of your love, awright? I’m worthy of it. And you’re worthy of love, too. You need to say it. Right now.”

“But -“

“C’mon!” Crowley growled, pulling the other forwards so that their foreheads and noses were touching. “Nothing is holding you back but _you_. Say it, you bastard.”

“I’m, um, worthy of love,” Aziraphale said clumsily.

“Again. Sssay it _better_.”

The angel steeled himself. “I’m worthy of love?”

“Say it until you believe it. Think of everything about you that you saw through me.”

“I’m worthy of love,” chanted Aziraphale, then he rolled his eyes. “Crowley, this is -“

“SAY IT!”

“I’M BLOODY WELL WORTHY OF BLOODY LOVE. THERE, I - UGH.”

Crowley was blinded.

A deep, demonic instinct told him to _run,_ but his feet got tangled within the bedsheets and he tumbled face-first onto the carpet. An explosion of light, all yellow and gold and silver, rushed over his prone form, rustling his hair with a pleasant vanilla-scented breeze. It burnt at his skin like radiation but he didn’t care, maybe he’d get a nice tan out of it. Better yet, it meant that his inkling had _worked_. 

When the light ebbed, the demon rolled over and scrambled up to his feet. The light fixed into the chandelier was flashing on and off. Thunder made the window rattle within its pane. Out to sea, hundreds of spires of electricity slammed down to the water all at once, lighting the entire sky in a blaze of white.

There was an angel-shaped scorch mark on the wall from where Aziraphale had presumably landed upon it. He was sat at the bay window looking thoroughly dazed, but certainly more himself. His wings were healed and stark white again, glowing as the lightning crashed beyond. His hair had returned to its usual luminous blonde. And his eyes - those eyes shared the colour of the tempest outside. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley managed, and the name emerged as an embarrassing whimper. “It worked.”

Aziraphale’s eyelids flickered. He wasn’t quite present just yet; Crowley could feel him wildly trying to gather his entire contents back into the corporation like a spider squeezing itself and all its legs into a tiny little hole. Quickly becoming impatient out of a sheer desire to know that everything was back to normal, the demon approached and wickedly cursed:

“Shitty buggar. Aziraphale, are you there? The fuckiest of fucks -“

“Goodness gracious, Crowley! There really is no need for that sort of profanity, is there?”

He could have passed out with relief. Before his legs could begin to consider the notion, he was being swept off them like a rag doll in a bone-crunching hug that saw him effortlessly lifted off his feet. 

“Ngack!”

The poor demon was swung this way and that, and when he was finally released he stumbled backwards onto the bed, his serpentine eyes wide-blown as he stared up at the angel with the biggest grin that he had ever grinned in his entire life. Aziraphale was smiling at him in turn, glorious and beautiful against the dramatic backdrop of the window, and his revitalised features were filled with so much love that Crowley could hardly believe it was for him and him alone.

It _was_ for him. 

Forgetting how to speak, he gazed up at the angel with awe. Aziraphale was like one of those old-timey paintings of angels descending upon man to offer good tidings, his soft hands outstretched. It took Crowley a moment to realise that he was supposed to be taking them. When he did, he was pulled back to his feet, and the pair stood there with their hands joined.

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said, musical in his gratitude. It shone in his eyes like stars. “Now you say it.”

“Uh -“ Crowley thought for a moment. “Thank you?”

“No, you old fool,” sighed the angel, his turn to be exasperated. “That you’re worthy.”

The demon’s throat tightened in response as if forbidding him from obeying. All of his thoughts of God and love and everything else had amounted to his, he realised. All of his self-doubt, which would never _truly_ go away due to being part and parcel of being Fallen, rested on this moment. For thousands of years had he considered himself unforgivable. Unlovable, even. That was what a demon was.

But that was only what everyone else said. 

Unable to look at the angel, he cast his gaze down between them, instead.

“Right. Uh … I’m …”

“We’re equals, you and I. Eternally. Think of everything that you saw through me,” Aziraphale echoed, “and say it until you believe it.”

Staring down at the pointed tips of his shoes, Crowley tensed as he summoned the strength necessary to admit what was needed. It went against every fibre of his being, but he could no longer deny the truth, not now that he had seen himself through the perception of a being he considered perfect on a personal and cosmological scale. 

“Gah,” he groaned, then forced himself to raise his head. Before he could stop himself, he said, quite adamantly, “I’m worthy of love.”

Aziraphale smiled. Their hands shifted so that Crowley’s were facing upwards and Aziraphale was holding his wrists, thumbs softly massaging the insides of them.

“Yes, you are. You’re quite wonderful - but you know that now, don’t you?”

Crowley grunted. “I know I’m gonna be sick if this keeps up.”

There was that expectant look again. Almost shy in nature, but not really - that particular angel always knew what he wanted and how to get it and he had been made to feel guilty about it for long enough. But no more. There was a sort of smarmy smirk after that, and then Crowley was being pulled into a kiss again. It was gentler, and there was no outlying feeling of wrongness. Not now. 

The light flickered out, drenching the pair in the colour of storms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is You Belong to Me by Cat Pierce.


	15. A Battle of Fire and Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence and Bad Times ahead.

That night, Crowley dreamt of fire. 

He dreamt of falling, of Hell, of burning. He had seen the two of them swathed in flames, the holy body of the angel he loved disintegrating into nothingness. It took a long time to emerge from that dream, even after waking. His heated face pressed into a cool, smooth shoulder, and a white wing shielded him from the storm.  
  


* * *

“Are you feeling better, Crowley?”

Pulled from his thoughts, the demon took a quick swig of his black coffee and grunted in affirmation.

Truth be told, the last few days had been rather a lot to take in. Last night, he had realised how desperately close he had come to losing absolutely everything, and yet he had somehow been fortunate enough to gain it all back and more. He stared at Aziraphale while the other meticulously consumed his breakfast and helped himself to the rest of Crowley’s upon it being offered to him.

Upon the finish, Aziraphale dabbed elegantly at his lips with a napkin and moaned obscenely. 

“Oh, that was _extraordinary_.”

The angel was positively glowing. It was almost as if nothing had happened at all. He stood out like a sore thumb in that dingy little dining room with its gothic style wallpaper and portraits and cobwebs. It was the sort of place that suited the likes of the Addams Family, not Principalities, but Aziraphale did not seem bothered by the sense of hopelessness and sorrow that leaked from every surface of the house. Perhaps he couldn’t feel it. 

Crowley could feel it. Though it seemed hesitant to approach with an angel close by, he could feel it tickling at his toes and fingers. Floorboards creaked as restless spirits drifted curiously past the room, and there was an old clock ticking on the extravagant Victorian mantelpiece. 

“It was just this place,” Crowley muttered into his coffee, and he took another sip. “The nightmare, I mean.”

“You don’t have to explain it, dear. It’s hardly a surprise that old memories were dredged up after everything.” Aziraphale leaned in a little, inspecting. “Are you _sure_ that you’re all right?”

“Never better. That was all thousands of years ago, remember? For you it was what, a couple of nights ago? Are _you_ all right?”

The angel did not seem impressed by the deflection. His eyebrows twitched, and he finished off his tea with a pinched expression, though it couldn’t last. A small smile touched at his lips, instead, and his eyes glittered in that way they did when he was thinking particularly fondly of something. Crowley smirked back at him in turn.

“Oh, right. Last night. You know, I don’t really remember anything. Must’ve blacked out.” His smirk broadened somewhat in response to the playfully stern look thrown his way, and the pair beheld each other a moment longer. “That doesn’t answer my question, does it?”

Aziraphale sighed delicately and fingered the handle of his tea cup. 

“I know that it was awful what happened, but truthfully, Crowley, I can hardly remember it. Perhaps it will all come back to me at some point, like … the fire -“ he paused and glanced downwards a moment, his features slackening. “That was … Well, it’s all over now. Truly, I am overcome with gratitude that I am still here. Any worries of mine concern the very near future. I’m … Um, the thought of fighting again … It terrifies me a little bit.”

“Right,” Crowley acknowledged, leaning in on his elbows. “You said you knew this Marchosias during the War. I’m guessing there’s no chance of talking it out, then?”

“Oh, no. Oh, no, no. Dear me, no. She was the Dominion in charge of my fleet, you see, and then - I’m not entirely sure what happened, she just turned on us all. She murdered angels with no shame, whether they were of Heaven or of the rebellion. My platoon and I managed to corner her. She was already Falling, I could see it, but I suppose we sped things along.” Aziraphale did not seem proud of this particular memory, idly stirring a spoon around his empty cup. “I didn’t know better at the time. She was just somebody that needed to go. I didn’t try to talk her out of it, not like the others. I just let her Fall somewhere she would be someone else’s problem.”

“Sounds to me like she deserved it.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose she did … What if I had ever come across you? What if I had just let _you_ Fall? That would have been … oh-”

“You weren’t there, you great idiot. And even if you had been, my last moments up there would have been a darn site better; a dashing warrior in shining armour coming to sweep me off my feet before I could damn myself.” A thought striking, Crowley smirked again. “Did you have long hair? Sort of helps with the romantic image I’ve got in my head.”

Successfully having dispersed Aziraphale’s bout of anxiety, he was met with a subtle roll of the eyes, instead. 

“We _all_ had long hair back then.”

“Why’d you get rid of it so soon?”

“Because -“ the angel flustered, busying himself with topping up his tea. “Long hair and flaming swords hardly go hand in hand, Crowley! I’m afraid we’ve gone rather off course, don’t you? As much as I want to linger within your quixotic fantasies -“

“What’s quixotic is that you’re fretting over fighting a demon that you’ve already defeated three times,” Crowley pointed out, hoping he was using that particular word correctly. “Oh, and are you forgetting the time you lied to God’s face? Faced Satan himself? Told seven Archangels to go fuck themselves?”

Aziraphale gaped at that, mouth falling open. “I did _not_ say that, you absolute fiend.”

“You did! I’ve committed that one to memory. You held your middle fingers up and everything.”

“Goodness,” the angel sighed, eyebrows twitching. “Must’ve been caught up in the moment, somewhat.”

Crowley hummed in agreement, a fond tilt to his lips.

Aziraphale continued, “You’re the one that flew your Bentley straight into Heaven like an absolute madman. I could hardly believe it when I saw you strolling down those steps as if you owned the place. Why, I’ve never been so - so _terrified_ in all my life.”

“Ah, it was the least I could do,” Crowley muttered, the better half of him ignoring the fact his partner was flushing slightly. “You were kind enough to give me all that insurance, remember? And I ‘spose I like you, too.”

The pair smiled stupidly at each other for an extended moment, slowly reaching forwards across the table until their hands rested together somewhere near the sugar bowl. Fingers arranged themselves into a gentle clasp that was warm, reassuring, and entirely loving, and though the two did not entirely realise it, they were glowing with mutual adoration.

That old, haunted house suddenly did not feel quite so cursed. The lugubriousness that had long since settled into those rooms was temporarily banished in favour of a light, warm feeling of love, and for a time, there was no such thing as gloominess; it had been chased out of the windows in favour of a heartiness the likes of which the house had not seen since its first Christmas all those decades ago. Such was the power of two cosmic entities sharing in an endless well of love.

As the withered flowers on the windowsill bloomed back into life, Aziraphale was pulled from the moment, his eyes lighting up with sudden epiphany. 

“Ah! That reminds me …” The angel snapped his fingers, and a tartan patterned flask appeared on the table in front of Crowley. “Something tells me that you’re going to be needing it.”

Crowley reverently reached out and took the flask into his hand, feeling its reassuring weight in his palm. It was remarkable the ease at which such an offer had come to fruition, now, after all the arguments it had caused in the past. Holy Water was not only insurance against demons, after all: it was an insurance of trust on both their parts.

The water disappeared into his inner pocket and he glanced back at the angel, granting him an appreciative once-over. 

“What about you?”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, and he picked up the Flaming Sword from where it was leaning against a table leg next to him. He held it up demonstratively. “The fire is holy so long as it’s in the hands of an angel. Thrusting it into the corporation of an evil being while it’s alight will destroy their cosmic body, too.”

Crowley thought he’d had a bad feeling about that thing. Staring at the weapon, he found that it was looking old and battered but no less dangerous than it had in the Garden. The particular nuance of it being able to make demons extinct filled him with an instinctual sort of dread for a moment, and he hissed at the sword in displeasure. Aziraphale quickly put it down again. 

“So sorry. Of course, it’s never been used for that particular purpose,” the angel explained quickly. “I should hardly like to start, but …”

“If needs must,” Crowley cut in. “Those bastards would kill you in an instant, Aziraphale. Don’t give them the benefit of the doubt.” The pair looked at each other again, rather more nervously this time, their joined hands tightening. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Plan? Oh. Oh, yes, I’m rather afraid we don’t have prophecies to rely on this time, do we? Well, I suppose … I suppose we simply wait for her to show up.”

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait for her to show up. Is that the best you’ve got? What about going to Heaven and asking for backup? Anything?”

“Because Heaven is a problem in of itself, you know. I _did_ destroy the sanctity of six Archangels. I’m not sure that if I go up there that I would be returning any time soon.”

“Right,” the demon croaked. “Yeah. Sod that. All right, what if we lead her to holy ground again? We scare off any humans, you do your terrifying glowy thing, like last time. Easy peasy. Shove that sword down her gullet and make sure she doesn’t come back.”

It seemed a good idea, in theory. Crowley was sure that he had passed a church on the way through Fortune’s Well. An island filled with old settlements had to be brimming with ruins and churches that boasted sanctified ground, even if the environment of the land felt to be cursed in some way. There was always light in the darkest of places, so he had heard.

However, fate had other ideas, as it usually did. 

Interrupted by a particularly loud crash of thunder, the pair jumped in their seats, and then again when the front door to the B&B bashed open somewhere beyond. Peering through the alcove through to the foyer, they saw Emery desperately scouring the place, soaked from head to foot. When he spotted them in the dining room, he staggered forwards out of sheer relief and gripped the back of an empty chair, his eyes wide and beseeching. 

“I was driving past and saw your car,” he explained breathlessly. “I’m sorry for telling you to leave, I was just - I panicked, I thought she was hurt -“

Crowley knew immediately that something was wrong. Sharing a look with Aziraphale, he then gestured for Emery to sit down.

“What’s gone on, then?”

He wasn’t counting on what happened next. The man dropped into the chair and stared numbly at them both for some time. Then, he started crying. Noisy, heaving sobs racked his body, and he leaned over the table, burying his face into his hands. Years of pent up grief and upset poured from him in powerful waves, a vast agony that no being would understand unless they had experienced it for themselves. A particular sorrow would cause a person to break down in front of strangers. Perhaps there was no one else he could turn to. 

Overwhelmed by all the mighty jumble of emotions he could reluctantly sense, Crowley glanced at Aziraphale again and jerked his head suggestively. Comfort wasn’t his department. 

The angel stood and allowed Emery a moment more to express himself. Moving quietly around the table, he then put a gentle hand on the back of the man’s head.

The tears ceased almost immediately. All traces of negative emotions were caressed by a deep and comforting warmth. _Hope._ Crowley was relieved to feel the onslaught backing down, and he was finally able to unclench his toes.

“She always thought it was her fault,” Emery rasped, staring firmly down at the table as tears spilled down his cheeks. “She has bad luck, you know. I think she moved to this island so that maybe she would get lost within all the badness. It wouldn’t f-find her. But Hope died and she’s been blaming herself ever since.” His eyes tightened, pained. “It was my fault. I was there. I looked away, just for a few seconds but it was long enough. People - people always drive too fast up that hill … and the worst part is I’ve seen her ever since. I see her stuck here and I remember what I did -“ Emery croaked and leaned closer to Aziraphale. “Cadence - she’s in a worse state than me. She got a bus to the Bill, said she had a dream last night, she looked terrified -“

“There, there,” Aziraphale attempted, shooting Crowley a look. His hand fell to Emery’s shoulder and he sat down beside him, his kind eyes immediately troubled. “Now, listen closely, dear. The two of you mustn’t blame yourselves for such a tragedy. I’ve been on this Earth a long time, you know, and - I know good people when I see them. You took a fallen angel into your home. If not for your kindness I almost certainly would have perished there in that crater.”

Emery snivelled and nodded slightly, squeezing his hands together. Aziraphale continued:

“We are all bound to lose things that matter to us. It’s a condition of existence, I think. The answer is not to give up and blame yourself for it. It’s to hold closely and treasure all that is left, all the things and people that you love. Doesn’t that sound like a more agreeable way to live?”

“Yuh,” Emery mumbled, dabbing at his eyes. “You’re right. I need to find Cadence. She’s so upset about something.”

“Did she say what the dream was about?” Crowley asked, though he suspected he already knew. 

“Uh … something about an angel. Not Arizaphale, a different one.”

The demon didn’t have the heart to correct him this time. Standing up, he took one last generous gulp of coffee and straightened his jacket, feeling increasingly nervous about the situation. He really, really didn’t have a good feeling about any of it, not at all. Fear bubbled lowly in his gut and he felt sick with it, not necessarily out of concern for himself but the safety of all that he held dear: a carefully maintained life on Earth and the one angelic constant.

“Time to go,” he grunted. “Angel, don’t forget your sword. Human guy, hope you don’t mind going fast. We can’t leave her out there on her own.”

The man immediately stood and hurtled back towards the front door. Aziraphale picked up his sword and nervously followed, holding the hilt of the weapon taut against his stomach. Crowley sauntered on behind out into the rain, sparing the confused teenager at the desk a short wave before closing the door behind him. 

Reaching for Aziraphale’s arm, he stopped him momentarily; Emery was already clambering into the back seat of the Bentley, giving them a brief moment alone in the increasingly heavy rain. The angel and demon regarded each other silently, Crowley’s hands moving down his partner’s arms until they rested on his hands, careful not to touch the metal of the sword.

Aziraphale was smiling, but there was a great pain behind it. It was a unanimous feeling as they drifted closer and closer to the unknown, further from the security of their homes. They may as well have been wandering a stinking sea fog for all things made sense. All Crowley could really see within it was his angel, the warm lantern guiding the way forwards through the murk. Reaching up, he touched Aziraphale’s now moist cheek, desperately holding him. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured shyly, and the love in his velvety voice was near enough palpable. Crowley gulped. “Crowley, I’m so grateful for you. You were dragged into all this -“

“Shhhut up,” the demon hissed, and he leaned in, tasting the rain on his angel’s lips in a short kiss. “You’re so bloody good. Your halo is showing.”

“What? Is it?” Aziraphale stuttered, eyes wide as he waved a hand somewhere over his head. At Crowley’s smile, he matched it and sighed. “Oh. Silly old me.”

“Silly old you.” 

Their noses touched and they reached for each other. It felt very unfair that they couldn’t just stay that way forever, wound around each other, two halves of one whole. Things felt so much better that way. Perhaps they would have stayed like that a moment longer, though Crowley felt a pair of eyes upon them and remembered that they regretfully were not alone, that they had a new mission to attend to. Emery’s nose was squashed against the window as he intently watched.

“Let’s go, angel.”

With a heavy sigh, Crowley turned and opened the passenger side door for Aziraphale, waiting for him to climb in before getting in to his own side. He could feel Emery still staring at them as he started up the car, so he turned and stared right back, his serpentine eyes shining over the rim of his sunglasses. Emery just gaped at him.

“What _are_ you?”

“Bit rude,” Crowley grunted, turning around again and steering them out onto the road. “‘M a demon. Just don’t tell anyone. I’m not really supposed to be here.”

“And you two are, uh …”

“That’s right. Problem?”

“No!” Emery said quickly. “No, I think it’s … it’s beautiful, really. An angel and a demon. Wow. And you’ve got your powers back, Arizaphale? You look, uhh …”

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale corrected with a sigh. “That’s right. Now, dear boy, I do suggest that you hold on tightly to something.”

It was the sort of suggestion that most would assume to be a joke, but no, it was spoken in full sincerity, which Emery learnt half a second too late as the Bentley roared into life and he found himself pinned to the back of his seat, wildly scrabbling for purchase. He shouted directions between his shrieks of terror, flung this way and that as the old car reached an impossible speed soaring through blurs of houses and trees, and begged _please slow down, mind the children!_

“Ngk,” Crowley responded flatly. “Sorry.”

The Bentley slowed. Nobody would have come to harm, not with an angel and a demon performing miracles the entire way, but Crowley was just decent enough to respect the tactlessness of it. Aziraphale certainly seemed relieved, too, relaxing from where he had all but curled up in the seat out of a sense of self-preservation. 

“K-keep following this road,” Emery advised, still gripping the back of his seat as if he might be flung from it at any moment. 

Leaving the village of Easton behind, they delved further into the mysterious island and its array of small, crooked settlements. The top of the island was flat, set high up on jagged cliff faces and hills, burying them into low-hanging clouds and aggressive pelts of rain. They passed remnants of old quarries and snow-white boulders and dips in the earth. Heading past open fields, wild rabbits and goats nibbled on the grass without a care in the world.

The road soon became narrow and winding. As they drove over a small hill, what Emery had called the Bill soon lay exposed before them: a beautiful spread of fields that ended suddenly into a point of dangerous rocks and drops into a raging sea. It was an enormous, impressive display, wildflowers spread across the grass in various colours, and the waves crashed against the cliffs, sending sprays of white up into the air that drifted like ghosts onto land.

A smoking crater marred the field closest to the lighthouse. Crowley tried not to look at that, instead focusing on the building. The spire of the lighthouse was very much broken, missing most of its top third, jagged and clawing at the clouds like a misshapen, dark claw, all the light stolen from its innards. Behind them, Emery heaved an emotional sigh. 

Crowley’s sense of dread only increased the closer they got to that cursed place. The sites of fallen angels were known to be cursed. When he stopped the Bentley in the lighthouse car park, he got out and immediately tasted Hellfire on the strong wind, smoke stinging at his nostrils from the crater it blew in from. 

He didn’t like that. Not at all. If the humans had not saved Aziraphale, it would not only be the site of a fallen angel, but an extinct one. 

But he soon realised that the smell of Hellfire was not coming from the crater. It was drifting in from elsewhere. Tongue darting out, he tasted the air again, struggling to pull his gaze from the ruined lighthouse.

Wildly on edge and alert, the demon remained close to his angelic companion and walked slow circles around him, hands stuffed in his tight pockets as he kept a close eye on anything that even dared move. Aziraphale was equally as anxious, his hands tight around the hilt of the sword, ever the shape and form of a guardian as he watched Emery race through the rain towards a figure by the lighthouse entrance. 

It was Cadence, soaked to the skin and trembling. When they drew closer, they found the couple hugging tightly, desperately, sobbing into each other’s shoulders. 

Torn between giving them privacy and hanging close by in case of danger, Crowley and Aziraphale awkwardly lingered, though they found themselves being invited forwards by Cadence, who reached for them over the shoulder of her husband. 

“Is it true?” She asked, her lips quivering. “Somebody showed up in my dream. An Archangel, he said …”

“Ah,” Aziraphale murmured, nervously glancing at Crowley for a second. “Yes. Gabriel.”

“Got his power back, then,” Crowley said lowly, very much annoyed. Furious, even. The two of them had really endured all that nonsense just for the Archangels to be restored to power again so soon? What had it taken on their parts? Angrily hissing between his teeth, he was fully prepared to sink into a full rant, though the situation at hand did not entirely call for it. 

“It’s true,” Aziraphale continued. “I felt it, I think. When I touched your belly.”

“I felt it, too. I just didn’t know what … It can’t be, though, I’m not-“ Cadence sobbed, clinging tightly to her husband. “It’s not possible. It’s not real! I don’t - I’m not worthy of that!”

“You were handpicked by God, I’m afraid. My dear, it means that you are much stronger than you know. You are trusted to raise a new, benevolent leader.” Aziraphale paused, gazing steadily at the pair with sudden resolve. “You are human. I have seen your kind endure the worst and emerge stronger. Togetherness in the face of adversity is the heart of all humanity. _I_ believe in _you_.”

At his side, Crowley shifted uncomfortably, not only for the fervent displays of emotion but because the distant scent of Hellfire was suddenly not so distant. Nostrils twitching, he touched at the angel’s arm in warning and peered around them, surveying the stormy surroundings in search of anything remotely demonic. It was there, without a doubt, and his heart sank with that realisation. 

Panic rose into his throat like bile. Or maybe that _was_ bile. He didn’t know enough about human biology to realise the difference. 

Leaning in, he hissed into the angel’s ear, “They need to get out of here right now. Something’s about.”

Admirably, Aziraphale swept into action at once. He did the unthinkable and pulled off his beloved coat, using miracles to dry both it and the shivering couple off, and then he draped it in gentlemanly fashion about Cadence’s shoulders. Crowley pursed his lips and lobbed the keys to the Bentley in Emery’s direction. 

“You two need to get out of the cold,” Aziraphale suggested kindly, though his hands were twisting tightly as he retrieved his sword. 

“The Bentley will take you wherever you want to go,” said Crowley, shoving his hands back into his pockets. 

Having caught the keys, Emery looked down at them wonderingly and then at Crowley, as if considering whether the demon was actually a demon at all.

“Get a scratch on her and you’re done for, matey,” Crowley added for good measure. “Go on! What’re you waiting for? Christmas?”

And he wouldn’t find out. 

The scent of Hellfire was more than a mere smell or taste, now. As a demon, he had a particular ability to sense it as a presence, too, it was just that powerful, and when it was far from where it belonged in the deepest pits of Hell, it felt all the more potent. He could feel it past the chill of the howling wind and ice-cold rain. He could -

He could see it reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes when the angel’s attention was pulled upwards. 

The heat was extraordinary. Summoned from the very bowels of the Earth, Hellfire could melt just about anything. It could kill divine beings stone dead, banish them to an eternity of non-existence. 

And he could feel it licking at his back. Startled, Crowley unfurled his great, black wings and dove forwards, shielding the group from a powerful torrent of Hellfire that surged down from the broken top of the lighthouse. Over the cocoon of darkness that his wings forged, orange sparks and coils of flame spilled and deflected over his feathers. 

Cadence screamed. It was a fair reaction, of course; fire and dark wings had been the last thing any human might have expected in that moment. Emery pulled her into his arms, terrified. Meanwhile, Aziraphale was rolling up his sleeves in that way he did when he was about to get down to the nitty-gritty. 

Shelving books, usually. Not fighting demons. 

“See them to the Bentley, Crowley. I suppose I’ll - I’ll distract her -“

“Distract her?” Crowley seethed, his skin flushing a demonic red. “She’s got Hellfire! She’ll kill you, you great idiot!”

The blinding torrent of fire stopped. Abruptly looking up over his shoulder, he saw the small but vicious frame of Marchosias stood there atop the ruined remnants of the lighthouse, grinning from ear to ear. The eyes of her wolf pelt were glowing yellow, and black magma seeped from between her sharp teeth and out of her eyes. 

Right. He had forgotten just how terrifying she was. Put a feral child into a grubby work suit and pelt and you would have Marchosias, giggling and snapping her teeth. And now she had a sword now, too, one that was nearly identical to Aziraphale’s.

Only her sword was aflame with Hellfire. She swung it about to show off, flipping it expertly this way and that, and she laughed in a confident sort of way that suggested she really thought she was going to win. 

Such confidence from a lesser demon was disconcerting. Then again, she had been a Marquis of Hell, and before that she had been a Dominion. Her prowess on the battlefield wasn’t anything to sniff at. 

“Aziraphaaaale!” She called down in a sing-song voice, her words carried down by the bracing wind. “D’you like my new sword? Isn’t she beautiful?”

Below, Crowley maintained the protective position of his wings as he desperately tried to think of a plan. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go! He cursed under his breath, desperately trying to shield the others from any bursts of Hellfire Marchosias could shoot down at any moment. 

“This seems more fair, doesn’t it?” She continued, snarling. Magma bubbled past her lips and down her throat. “Your platoon isn’t here to stop me. You’re not stood on holy ground. Oh - and all this Hellfire will wreak havoc on your body if you decide to show yourself. So let’s have at it, Principality! A fair fight! And if you lose, which you _will_ , I get to kill this traitorous demon and your new friends, the bearers of the Second Coming!” Marchosias spat at that, a great globule of black splatting to the ground. “I’ve been given the great honour of _murdering_ them by Satan himself, and believe me, Aziraphale, you’re not gonna ruin everything for me again!”

Aiming down, she fired another torrent of Hellfire in their direction, and it bounded in an arc over Crowley’s wings in a dangerous orb. Aziraphale was forced to kneel to get as far away from it as possible, and Crowley knew then that they had to move and get as much distance as they could. 

“Fffuck,” he groaned, pained by what he was about to do. “Aziraphale, I’m gonna deflect the flames back. You need to make a run for it, get away from the fire and smoke. Am I clear?”

“Yes,” the angel murmured, his eyes wide. “Go!”

Altering his footing, Crowley steeled himself and shifted his wings a few times - and then swung them back powerfully enough that the Hellfire rebound and struck the tower of the lighthouse, riding along his wings and back. It meant that Aziraphale and the humans were uncovered, however. The angel grabbed his sword and dashed away, the blade of his weapon lighting in bright and beautiful holy fire, but he made the mistake of looking back. 

Marchosias had her wings out. Enormous and messy and powerful. With a howl of laughter, she swooped down and barrelled past them all, using her sword to light a broad line of Hellfire on the grass.

Cursing, Crowley pushed the human pair away when that scorched line exploded into a wall of Hellfire, strategically placed to separate Aziraphale from help. 

“Shit!” He yelled, desperately trying to find his partner beyond that towering wall of flames. Up above, he could see Marchosias diving up and down, lighting up parts of the field in that cursed fire. He realised that her goal was to trap her target within it. The sky was red with it, black smoke pouring into the rain clouds, deadly embers floating down into the space beyond that he could not see. Crowley roared and was fully prepared to dive into the fire, but somebody grabbed his hand -

Cadence. She had somehow calmed herself despite the presence of roaring flames, and there was a familiar gentleness in her touch, familiar enough that Crowley was able to pull his thoughts from deep panic. Taking hold of both their hands, the demon ran and pulled them back over to the Bentley, shielding them both with his wings. 

“GET IN!” He bellowed, quite literally throwing Emery into the driver’s seat. Cadence held her belly and ran to the other side, though stopped and looked desperately at him.

“What about -“

“We’ll be fine. Just a minor demon. Nothing we haven’t seen before. Get on, now, will you?”

When the Bentley pulled away, he issued it a silent farewell before turning to face the sea of flames swallowing the lighthouse and the grass below it. In his absolute panic, he conjured a weapon and it certainly wasn’t anything that would hold up in such a situation, though it was all his mind was capable of thinking up in that moment: a rounder’s bat, small but solid.

He wasn’t a fighter, his cosmic body reminded him. Don’t do it, it said. He wasn’t designed for such things.

His heart, pesky thing that it was, told him that it didn’t matter what he was designed for. What mattered was that they were facing a crazed demon and he was the only one around that could help.

“Aziraphale!” He yelled, sprinting towards the fire like a madman with his bat held aloft. “I’m here, I’m -“

An expulsion of energies knocked him straight onto his backside. Something had propelled itself from the centre of the inferno, something so magnificent and resplendent that it glowed with all the light of the sun. It spun upwards like a torpedo, and then brilliant, white wings unwound from the body they were protecting, spreading out into a size true to life and wondrous to behold.

Crowley could have cried with relief. Scrambling to his feet, he waved a hand and used a miracle to empty his partner’s lungs of any dangerous smoke, to heal any wounds it might have afflicted. Aziraphale’s wings beat away the smoke pouring up into their feathers, and he soared forth, appearing every bit the holy warrior with his furious glow and his Flaming Sword. 

Crowley might have fallen in love all over again, if only he had the time. 

A huge, dark shape emerged from the smoke, feral and ghoulish. Glowing yellow eyes fixed on their target. Like a shark emerging from dark waters, Marchosias appeared in the shape of a winged wolf, holding her flaming sword in her serpent’s tail. Her greater size pummelled into Aziraphale and she snapped her mouth around one of his wings, pulling him out of the sky and to the ground.

She sped towards the swirling torrents of Hellfire that were spreading across the grass, dragging Aziraphale with her like a dog with a toy. Crowley, given no time to think, sprinted forth hot on her tail and propelled himself forwards with his wings until he landed right on top of her back. With a bellow did he pull at her ragged ears, her ruff, her wings, _anything_ \- 

“NO YOU FUCKING DON’T.”

Crowley hated shapeshifting. He feared it somewhat, believing that if he spent long enough in a shape that was not really his own, he would forget how to change back. 

But that didn’t matter. Not now. 

Marchosias was on the brink of the flames, but as her legs were bound by something long and very, very strong, she crashed down and whined loudly. As quick as that, Crowley slithered over her in his serpent form and quickly wrapped himself around her, constricting her so tightly that she was forced to release Aziraphale’s wing in a desperate bid for air. Crowley tied a neat little bow with his tail and turned his great, spiny head in his angel’s direction, flicking his tongue out at him affectionately. 

“ _Gooo_ ,” the Serpent said, temptingly. “ _Fly, Azssiraphale.”_

Aziraphale growled and tried to refuse, holding his sword aloft in preparation to end Marchosias then and there, but the flames were drawing in; he couldn’t get close. Sparing a beseeching look at Crowley, he spread his wings and desperately tried to beat back the flames, the fatal heat forming a tell-tale sweat on his brow. 

“Crowley, I can’t get close!” Aziraphale yelled, taking several steps back as the Hellfire roared closer and closer to him. Then, his eyes lit up. Glaring at Marchosias, he held up his sword threateningly. “You’re a pathetic demon, Marchosias! You couldn’t kill me back then, you can’t kill me, now! You don’t even know how to handle a sword! Satan sent you here to die, you silly thing. He doesn’t want you -“

Crowley could have killed him for standing so resolute. He hissed as Marchosias’ form shrank beneath the dark coils of his body and she darted out from the confines of it, wearing her human form with her sword in hand. Aziraphale finally had the sense to run when she sprinted after him, and he took to the sky, diving straight off the edge of the island and over angry, spitting waves. 

It was clever, pulling her from the safety of Hellfire and out into the open air. Finally, there over the sea, the two clashed in battle, their flaming swords striking as loudly as the thunder. They spiralled and dived in a dangerous ballet, each one trying to outwit the other but only managing to meet each other’s blades as opposed to flesh. The powerful wind buffeted at their wings and pulled them apart, the rain blinded them, but they found each other above the raging sea and crashed together in great bursts of fire.

It was extraordinary. Biblical, even. Crowley slithered out from the storm of Hellfire and resumed his usual form, spreading his wings in preparation to take flight and help. 

“Don’t even think about it,” said a voice behind him. 

Oh, what _now?_

“Pissss off,” he hissed, very much still in snake mode. Turning, he found that three familiar demons had dared show up unannounced.

That wasn’t fair. Not at all.

It was Olivier, Pythius, and Ariton, the same cronies of Marchosias’ that had caused the car collision and almost discorporated both him and Aziraphale. Crowley suffered the memory of a broken lily plant pot, the presence of a hellblade, and he came to the conclusion that he absolutely did not have time for any of those wretched ingrates.

They seemed about as prepared for a fight as he did; the impish Ariton carried a pitchfork tied together with duct tape, the banker-esque Olivier wielded an empty whiskey bottle, and the mysterious Pythius had nothing but her fangs. 

“You killed my best friend,” said Olivier ominously. “Prepare to die.”

“Who?” Crowley asked politely, summoning back his rounders bat (it had met an untimely end within the Hellfire). “Can’t recall.”

Olivier ran a hand down his face, exasperated, then dropped the tough guy act.

“Verrier! You know! The guy with the crown! Jeez-Louise, ya threw Holy Water all over him!”

“Nope,” Crowley shrugged, definitely remembering but was more inclined to antagonise the demons than sympathise. “Don’t know who Louise is, either, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Ssssshhhssss ssnnsss,” offered Pythius, and Ariton did an excitable little jig, his pointed tail wagging.

“Ooooh, she said he’s lying! He remembers!”

Olivier’s features stretched in a dirty smirk. “Ain’t that so? He got so close to killing that angel of yours, Crowley, but I guess his failure led to this. Marchosias gets the killing blow and I get my revenge. _Finally_.” He placed a hand on his chest and glanced vaguely upwards. “You seein’ this, Verrier? All you really wanted was to be an angel again. That’s all _any_ of us ever really wanted. Instead, we gotta watch corrupt angels being let off the hook. Isn’t that right, Crowley?”

Crowley felt an ice cold sensation flood though his limbs.

“No,” he said at once, and winced when Pythius smiled at him, hissing between her lips.

“ _Liiiiaaaarrrr_ ,” Ariton sang happily, dancing about in a display of emotional sadism. “ _Liar, liar, pants on fire!_ You hate them! You hate being a demon! You’re still just like the rest of us, traitor!”

“Loving an angel doesn’t make you _different,_ ” Olivier continued cruelly, jabbing his whiskey bottle in Crowley’s direction. Ariton looked as though he might vomit at that particular jibe. 

“Ew, _ew_ , loves an angel! Horrible traitor!”

“Traitor,” Olivier growled, stepping forwards. “You’re coming back to Hell, Crawly. You don’t scare us, ‘cause we know what you are: a nobody that craves the attention of a disgusting, pig-faced angel -“

“What was that?” Crowley heard himself saying in a cold, flat tone. His brain suddenly emptied itself of all the doubt and self-contempt the demons had been filling it with. Staring blankly at the trio, he said, “What did you just say to me?”

“I said that you crave the attention of a disgusting, _pig-faced_ angel -“

“Yeah. Yeah, I thought that’s what you said.” Calmly flipping his rounders bat, he held it threateningly over his head, suddenly very much at peace with himself and what he had to do. “You’re right. I hate that I Fell, but only sometimes. I hate being a demon most of the time. If none of that had happened, I wouldn’t be _me._ And I _do_ like being me. And that angel out there, that brilliant, brave angel - he’s mine. It was worth Falling for all that, and, oh, it’s definitely worth being a traitor. Are you sure you wanna come at me? ‘Cause I faced Satan himself. I spat Hellfire in the Archangel Gabriel’s holy bloody face. I stopped the _fucking_ Apocalypse. And I will discorporate all of you and decorate my flat with your heads if you call him that again, I swear to Someone.”

“What?” Olivier prodded callously, unmoved by Crowley’s words, perhaps because he didn’t really understand what they meant. “A disgusting -“

And his ignorance would prove a fatal mistake. No sooner had he continued talking, a vicious swing of an arm earned him a face-full of wooden bat and an instant discorporation. 

Olivier’s empty body flopped heavily down to the ground. Ariton screeched. Pythius hissed. The latter was sensible enough to abandon the fight, extending her jaw threateningly and then disappearing into the earth, but Ariton was rather more determined - and stupid. He stuck his long tongue out at Crowley and then brought out his leathery, bat-like wings, flapping urgently into the sky. 

The creature made straight for Aziraphale, landing on his back and clawing into him, pulling him back towards the streaming smoke spreading across the Bill. Aziraphale dropped and struggled with the additional weight, though was spared a lungful of Hellfire when Crowley beat past and seized Ariton by his tail, yanking him off and swinging the demon straight into the churning sea. 

His attack had left him open, however.

Something bit so hard into his shoulder that he saw stars. Shocked by the violent pain tearing across his flesh, he barely registered something crashing into his back. A strong arm and wings kept him held aloft, pulling him back over land.

A blade sliced across the base of his wing. It wasn’t enough to separate it from his body, but certainly enough for the wing to lose function. The pain was barely there, initially, but as blood poured down his back and legs, it all began to finally register.

Shit. Marchosias had him. Despite his wounds, Crowley fought diligently in her solid grasp, though yelped when he found himself slipping from her dangerous height. 

Everything was getting a bit fuzzy by then. Stupid corporations and their propensity to be hurt.

He could see Aziraphale’s completely distraught expression. The fool had his sword lowered, well and truly ensnared in Marchosias’ little trap - because that was what it was. Crowley knew demons, and Marchosias had no real reason to use him other than to get to Aziraphale somehow. He hung onto her arm for dear life and urgently shook his head at the angel, begging him not to do something stupid and get hurt. 

“Would you rather see the traitor die first, Aziraphale?” Marchosias sang. She was a mess of emotions, laughing and snarling and everything in between, eyes wild with desperation. There were tears there, brimming over and spilling to mingle with the magma she spat from her mouth. “You’ll try to save him, won’t you?” She continued, her voice breaking further as she went on. “What makes him so special? You’ll try to save this one, but you never tried to save ME!”

She dropped him. 

Crowley was engulfed in smoke, landing somewhere near the sea of flames. Somewhere out there, he heard the strangled cry of his name. Nothing really hurt, even if his body felt to be on fire. It wasn’t his body. He had endured much worse pain than this all those thousands of years ago, when he had plummeted from the sky. What _did_ hurt was to hear Aziraphale’s anguished cries.

Weakly rolling onto his front, the demon groaned in agony - _it didn’t hurt, it didn’t hurt_ \- forcing himself up onto his knees. Smoke stung his eyes. It was everywhere. He couldn’t see.

Aware of Marchosias flitting around him, he blindly reached out and tried to grab her, but she slipped through his fingers like the smoke that consumed them. 

“Over here, Aziraphale!” He heard her calling, and then he felt her shift positions within the deadly cloud. “Over here! Oh, no! Oh, he’s dead! Poor Crowley! Poor traitor!”

She was pulling him to his feet. Dazed, Crowley was vaguely aware of something bright glowing beyond. Something like fire. His fire, his flame, glowing bright, as always. Marchosias moved to stand in front of him, and her peal of laughter stretched high to the Heavens.

“Over here!” She screamed, and just as that very bright, very beautiful thing pierced through the smoke, she disappeared.

Crowley became aware of several things in that moment. Firstly, he noticed that the smoke was dissipating, likely due to the heavy rain and the presence of something very holy. That was what he noticed second: Aziraphale, who had paled to a sickly grey colour, losing the vengeful lustre he had adopted moments ago. His eyes were fixed on his Flaming Sword, which was, the demon came to notice, now embedded squarely in Crowley’s chest. 

That one did hurt. 

Aziraphale made a choking sound. So did Crowley, though for different reasons. 

The final thing he noticed was Marchosias creeping in behind Aziraphale, her great wings spread and her sword set to mode: execute. As the smoke died, she drifted in and was about to bring that sword plunging straight down into his angel’s back.

He had enough strength left for one thing and one thing only. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the flask of Holy Water and unscrewed it clumsily. With a careless movement did he fling a good portion of it straight over Marchosias before she could bring her sword down.

She screamed. He couldn’t see what happened next because his eyes were closing of their own accord. His breath wheezed in his chest, and he could feel his damaged heart quickly failing him.

“Insurance, bitch,” Crowley croaked. Feeling something warm that definitely was not fire holding him close, his consciousness drifted further into the world of pleasant things, perhaps so that his body could try to forget all of the dreadful things happening to it as the seconds ticked by.

The smell of books. Vanilla. An open fireplace. Flowers crawling up walls and windows. The kindest eyes and the sweetest smile the world had ever seen, and it was all for him. _Him._

As he dreamt, he choked on smoke and blood. His shaking hand ventured into the outer pocket of his jacket and clumsily latched onto something cool and solid. Ring-shaped. Whatever it was, he remembered that it was important as he placed it into a warm, trembling hand. 

_Don’t go, I’m sorry, I can heal you, I can -!_

But like all good things, the dreams came to an end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Blackbird by Alter Bridge.


	16. Old Friends

Ragged cliffs were clawed at by towering waves and pelted by rain. It was the nature of the place, and always had been.

Ebony feathers caught in the stormy updrafts and carried over the sea, swirling into the waters to drown or simply breaking apart into dark ashes. They were all that was left of a fallen demon, whose corporation had long since been destroyed by a holy blade. One by one, those feathers ventured into the abyss and faded away.

An angel sat on the cliff’s edge and watched them go. 

A strange sort of numbness had set in since the fight. It could have happened hours ago for all he knew. He thought that he probably should have been feeling some sort of sadness, but his heart tore ragged in silence. He felt to be naught but a void, numb to the pain as if somebody somewhere had taken pity and removed his capability to understand, to weep. Maybe he should have been thankful. 

He knew better. His mind simply had not processed any of it. He still expected to turn around and see the demon sauntering towards him in that way he did, probably ready to chastise him for moping. 

His own feathers rustled in the wind, blood-soaked and some of them damaged but otherwise firmly attached. All thanks to Crowley, he recalled, who had followed him to a broken, haunted place to pick up the pieces and put them back together in perfect semblance of an angel, but he had deserved better than that. He had deserved better than Aziraphale taking heavenly matters into his own hands. He had deserved better than to be used as a ploy, a trap, he had deserved better than a careless discorporation at the hands of his supposed best friend - his eternal _partner_.

Not discorporation, he remembered. 

Extinction. 

The angel looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Stained red. They knew what they had done. 

Aziraphale’s deepest fears of being a danger to Crowley had finally been actualised. That was what he was made for, wasn’t it? He had gone over six-thousand years without killing anything, maybe he had to pay his dues somehow. Maybe this was his punishment for everything that he had done. Falling was out of fashion, now they just took everything that meant something to destroy one’s spirit, instead; there was little chance of him emerging from such a loss as the angel he had been. He was not entirely sure what had been left behind. 

One last feather floated past him. Reaching out, he caught it in his hands and gazed adoringly at the iridescent secondary. No angel or demon had ever had feathers as beautiful as Crowley, though Aziraphale had never had the courage to say such a thought out loud. There were many things that he had never said. For millennia, those thoughts and feelings had been buried so deep that to unearth them had taken just as long, all because he had been scared of what they might mean. 

The feather disintegrated in his hand and floated away. 

Crowley would show up at any moment, his mind told him. That was the way things were.

Movement flickered in the corner of his eye. Eagerly turning, Aziraphale found not the familiar visage of his demon but the small, ghostly form of a child. Large, dark eyes peered fearfully at him, tears streaming down translucent cheeks. There was no doubt that it was the daughter of Emery and Cadence, lost to the world far too soon. Her name was Hope. 

Aziraphale stood up and graced her with an empty smile. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, and his own voice sounded alien to him. Too robotic. Too angelic. He opened his wings, and it stung. “I’m from Heaven. I’m here to take you to a better place. We’re so sorry for the wait, my dear.”

Hope shyly regarded him, taking a few steps forwards to admire his wings. Once she had her fill, she looked up at him again and pointed at his face, pouting. Quickly bringing a hand to his cheek, Aziraphale felt hot tears streaming unacknowledged.

Pain bloomed in his heart. It was unlike anything that he had ever known, a loneliness that was more painful than silent nights at the bookshop, than decades on Earth without the love or consideration of his own kind. This was a true eternity alone. An eternity without a true friend. Without Crowley.

Aziraphale choked on his smile, but there it remained. Dutiful. Kind. It was strong enough to give the rain pause, and the clouds slowly began to drift apart. 

“Tears of joy,” he explained throatily, hastily brushing the moisture away. “I’m so happy to meet you, Hope. Shall I take you to say goodbye before we go?”

The girl offered him a beatific grin in response and nodded.

The two disappeared in a flash of light, leaving behind green grass and a miraculously restored lighthouse in their wake. 

Beneath the waves, two swords were lain to rest.

* * *

The baby came as a surprise.

It hadn’t actually emerged yet, but had readily announced that yes, actually, it would begin the appropriate proceedings as soon as the Bentley had roared into action. In the panic of the rather demanding situation of scary fiery demons, Emery and Cadence hadn’t initially noticed.

Later that day, wide-eyed and numb in the maternity wing of the nearest hospital as they waited for the labour to really get into the swing of things, they were presented with yet two more surprises. 

The first was their new friend who happened to be an angel, run ragged with a weariness they felt to their bones and shimmering blood daubed down his old-fashioned clothes and his wing. He appeared in a flash of light, much to their alarm, and just when they thought nothing could possibly surprise them anymore, Hope stepped out from behind his legs. 

Emery had always been able to see her. It had been his gift as much as his curse. Thanks to the help of a silent miracle, Cadence was able to see her, too. 

It was a heart-wrenching sight.

Cadence wailed and flung herself off the hospital bed. She did a desperate little dance in her mixture of excitement and grief and then kneeled before the spirit of her daughter, sobbing her heart out. She apologised profusely, over and over until the warm hand of her husband squeezed her shoulder, and then she stopped. Remembered. Smiled.

Tears fell as joyful streams as the small family were reunited. It was agony as much as it was jovial. For all the years they had blamed themselves, for all the years that they had suffered in silence, resolution had found them at long last and the tragic wandering of a lost soul would finally be brought to an end. They could all be at peace, and when the time came, they would be reunited in some form again.

They shared words of love with their daughter. They smiled and laughed and recalled old memories. Together, they found light within the font of darkness that had swallowed them for so long, and they used the short time they had to finally be able to issue their farewells. 

Though they could never truly be ready for it, the pair eventually stood and regarded the angel that was stood off to the side. The poor thing was absolutely ragged. His empty eyes were staring off into space, and he seemed to have forgotten where he was, that he could probably heal his wounds without even trying.

They didn’t have to ask. Both of them felt immediately guilty for never actually having learnt the demon’s name, their mourning extending to the stranger who had inexplicably given everything to help protect them. They couldn’t really understand the meaning behind it all - in fact, everything was still very confusing and they had questions they doubted would ever be answered, but they did understand that the aloof and biting but kind-hearted man was gone.

“Um,” Emery said into the silence, nervously regarding the angel. Reaching forwards, he gently touched at his shoulder. “Aziraphale. _Thank you._ I can’t … What you’ve done for us -“ His voice broke, the ball in his throat thickening intensely. “I’m so sorry … about - I can see it. Your aura. It’s …” He swallowed, unsure how to go on. 

Cadence reached for Aziraphale’s other shoulder, tearfully smiling at him.

“You were both incredible. I’m so sorry …”

The angel smiled at them, agonised. “Now, now. You mustn’t be sorry. You had no part in any of it.”

“But -“

“You need to be resting, dear. Look at you. You’ll need your strength; Heaven will no doubt be visiting, you see, and they can be very taxing. All the more, you have a little angel of your own on the way.”

Cadence hugged Aziraphale, and Emery saw the struggle of _don’t break down, don’t, don’t, don’t,_ plainly there on their new friend’s pale face, favouring resolve in the face of humanity and their own struggles. It had never really felt as though people or beings of such kindness ever really existed, only in fairy tales. Apparently, fairy tales could be more true to reality than he had ever suspected, as there was a being of goodness among them, now, breaking the curse that had lingered over their heads for so long. 

Emery truly had no idea how to put into words his gratitude and his sorrow. It was beyond humans. It was even beyond him and his sixth sense. He felt as though Aziraphale had not done any of it for the gratitude, however. 

The couple stepped back and waved at their daughter in that way parents waved a child off on their first day of school. Whatever the next life was, it was sure to be an adventure, and they knew for certain that there would come that day that they would be together without a care in the world. Not a sorrow, not a single tear in sight. 

“Come to visit us, Aziraphale,” Cadence insisted, bracing her hands against her lower belly as a contraction started. “We’ll make you tea, we’ll - ugh!” Looking down at Hope, she waved at her again and blew her a kiss, desperate not to struggle onto the bed in front of them all. 

The angel finally looked at them with something of an expression. He flexed his hand a bit, and they watched in awe as it began to glow with a soft light, perhaps making it ethereal enough that Hope was able to take hold of it. She did so with gusto, beaming up at him.

And then they were gone. 

Small, white flowers crawled up the window panes, sweetening the air with their scent. 

Cadence dropped onto the bed and groaned mournfully into the pillow, tears leaking down her cheeks.

* * *

Ramiel had not expected to play the role of mediator alongside everything else she had been dealing with lately, but order no longer seemed to be the way of things. 

In a surprising turn of events, the Archangels had not _Fallen_ fallen. They had just sort of crash landed and had to go on a journey of learning and self-realisation, which actually seemed a healthier way of going about things. Most of them, the ones who had found themselves still without their divinity, were stood at the back of the meeting room in humbled silence. There was a space between Michael and Uriel where Sandalphon would have stood, once. 

Gabriel had brought them all up to Heaven after finding the location of the new Holy Mother and delivering his Message. That entire affair was something of a surprise, too, and Ramiel had an inundation of questions she wanted to ask, but there was a new matter at hand. No sooner had Gabriel and the others slunk into Heaven in secret, so too had Lord Beelzebub and zir right-hand-demon, Dagon. 

Backchannels, apparently. Ramiel hadn’t even known they existed. Then again, there were a lot of things she hadn’t known about. Second Comings, for example, which she had learnt about approximately an hour ago.

Gabriel sat at one end of the table. Beelzebub sat at the other. Ramiel sat uncomfortably between them, staring down at her clasped hands. She didn’t much like conflict or tension, and both of those things were made manifest in the forms of an Archangel and his adversary, a Demon Prince, the pair glaring at each other so fiercely that the air between them was actually heating somewhat. 

There was some sort of history there, clearly, but Ramiel was sure _that_ was a question she could never ask. 

“You promised us a Throne,” Beelzebub started off, breaking the hate-filled silence. “We made a deal. Lord Lucifer is not at all pleazzzed.”

“You lookin’ at this, buddy?” Gabriel argued, gesturing down at his holy body with flourish. “Your stupid Hellfire didn’t work as it was meant to. Oh, and guess what? That Throne never wanted to be yours in the first place. I’d like to see _you_ try turning an angel like that. So -“ He made a rude, two-fingered gesture at the demon and blew an impressive raspberry to go with it. “Suck on that. Go back to Hell, dingbat. We’re done here. You know, before we start thinking about the fact your boss just committed an act of war by sending demons after the Holy Mother. Did you think we wouldn’t see that one?”

Beelzebub’s lips rolled agitatedly. Ze deliberated a moment, then leaned forwards, voice lowering into the vague buzz of fly wings. 

“Gabe, we both know Lucifer has his …” ze hesitated. “Tantrums. There can’t be a war. Not yet.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because -“ Beelzebub, suddenly showing more emotion than ze had ever shown in an entire existence, pulled back and actually looked vexed. “Hell’s productivity hazzz … dropped. Temporarily. That’s why I’m here and why the Dark Lord is takin’ a therapeutic holiday to the pits of Tartarus. Probably won’t see or hear from him for another few centuries.”

That all sounded rather familiar to the Archangels, who knew well enough that they were not ready for another war, either. There was no guarantee that they would actually get any sort of help from Above, especially when the Plan, the Restructure, didn’t seem to have violence in mind. It was more of a rebirth than anything. A second go, another chance. God did not want a war, that much was clear. 

“Looks like we’re at an impasse,” said Ramiel, and she spoke with far more confidence before her siblings than she likely ever had. “We can’t fight each other. We’ve made horrible mistakes both our ends that need sorting out. Why don’t we focus on that for a while before we start comparing sword sizes?”

She sighed delicately when Gabriel and Beelzebub resumed glaring at each other. 

“So be it,” Gabriel finally agreed. “The backchannels will be shut down while we clean up this mess.”

“Fine. I don’t want to hear your voice for a thousand years. It’s szzo annoying.”

Nobody paid attention to the door opening just beyond. 

Immediately irate, Gabriel smiled at his adversary and stood up, leaning forward onto his hands. 

“Well, cupcake, I’m more than happy to show you the way out. I’ll try not to throw you down the elevator shaft, huh? Then again, I’ve always wanted to see if you can even fly with those disgusting bug wings of yours -“

“No more disgusting than your face, Gabe.” Beelzebub stared firmly at the Archangel. Then, strangely, ze actually smirked a little. “Got places to go, got people to torture, ya know, the usual. We’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel huffed, determined to get the last word. “Smell ya later.”

The Demon Prince and Dagon headed for the door, walking straight past the angel who had recently entered without acknowledging him. 

The Archangels, caught up in old habits, forgot to acknowledge him, too. And then they realised who it was. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel greeted with an unnerving smile, giving the Principality an antipathetic once over. “Just the angel I wanted to see! You, ah … you look _terrible_ , but you’ve got your power back, at least. Not like these slackers back here.”

Ramiel cringed. Standing up from the table, she moved past Gabriel and beheld Aziraphale for the first time since the review, trying to look as apologetic as possible. That expression quickly slid from her face when she really took him in, however; his own expression actually succeeded in frightening her, somewhat.

The rumoured fight had taken its toll on him, clearly. He did not stand there in that nervous way he usually did. Instead, his hands were clenched at his sides and his empty, tortured eyes moved between all of the Archangels one by one. The way he looked at them was both accusing and beseeching, moisture building at the corners of his corporation’s eyes. 

He didn’t answer Gabriel. After a moment of silence, the leader of the Archangels tried again, apparently unsure what to make of their underling’s appearance. 

“Look, no hard feelings about the fall, okay? No harm, no foul … except maybe Sandalphon, but he chose his path. While we were gone, Ramiel’s been making changes up here I think you might like - and, er …” Gabriel’s awkward smile shifted into one of uncertainty. The muscles in his neck strained, as if his next words were physically painful to say. “We’re sorry, for, ya know … for not listening. For threatening you. That was, ya know … I guess I really forgot myself there. Anyways, for all your hard work as our field agent for all these thousands of years, we’re not gonna be accepting applications for the Archangel position that’s opened up. We’re just giving it to you. Congratulations on your promotion, Aziraphale. If you’ll just report to the -“

“No,” replied Aziraphale, and the Archangels gasped collectively. All except Ramiel, who had a better understanding of what might have been going through his mind. 

“No?” Gabriel laughed nervously. “What do you mean, no?! Did you hear me? I’m promoting you to Archangel. Just report to the Metatron and get God’s blessing, and you’re dandy. Just make sure you clean up all that blood before you see him.”

The tension roiling within the heavenly meeting room suddenly became cold. Apparently, the offer of more power and authority was not enough to sway, even if most angels would have leapt at the opportunity. Wanting to distance herself from her siblings, Ramiel drifted gracefully forwards and tried to extend a hand to Aziraphale’s wounded wing to heal it, but to her dismay, he flinched away from her and positively glared at the others, as if he was considering running them through with his sword. If he even had it, of course. 

“Where were you?” He put to them, his voice utterly broken. “Where were any of you? You could have sent - you have plenty of soldiers, you could have sent them to _help._ We were defending that family on our own!”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Ramiel, ashamed. “I didn’t know about the Second Coming until Gabriel arrived here a small while ago.”

Gabriel quickly added, “And the rest of us have been kinda stuck dealing with smothering down the prospect of another war, Aziraphale.”

“O-oh, is that so?!” Aziraphale bit back with blistering venom, extremely bold in the address of his superiors as thousands of years of pent up anger began to unleash itself. “I come here and you and Beelzebub are arguing like a pair of human children. Is that dampening the flames of war, is it? Maybe, _just maybe,_ you could have appeared to Cadence in your full glory and actually been there when that demon showed up to kill her. Any of you! Millions of angels! And not a single one showed up to help.” 

“Things have been a bit -“

“Do you know who _was_ there? Hm?! Crowley. You know, the _demon_. He didn’t have to, Heaven isn’t really his business, is it? And yet he was there, defending them by my side because he knew it was the right thing to do. And now he’s _dead_.” Taking a shuddering breath, Aziraphale held his face in his hands as tears spilled free. “He’s gone. She tricked me - it was my fault, and he’s gone. I did it. _I_ did it. I c-can’t be an Archangel, I’m … I killed my best friend.”

Unsure what to do with the fervent display of emotion occurring, the Archangels looked at each other, silently communing. They didn’t really understand the nature of the relationship their Principality and that wily demon might have shared, but they were obligated to believe him after years of not really listening.

“Buddy,” Gabriel said in a tone he might have thought was gentle. “You can be one of us. Heaven’s changing. _We’ve_ changed. Just come back to us and we’ll be here for you. You’ll be closer to God than ever before. Isn’t that what you want?”

Through his tears, Aziraphale huffed in disbelief. His fingers pulled down his face. And then he laughed. An unpleasant, unmelodious sound that might have suited a demon more than an angel. It stopped abruptly, and his stormy eyes set upon them all with resolute finality.

“What I _want_ ,” he growled, a terrible sadness in the fury he regarded them with, “I want to be left alone. You won’t dismiss me, belittle me, or lay your hands on me. I want to be on Earth doing good for mankind, uninterrupted by your petty affairs. I’ll work with your angels if needs be, but I will not deal with _you._ It’s rather too late for that.”

“Let me get this straight. You want things to go back to how they were, just without _us_ in the picture? Really?” Gabriel asked, stunned. “Aziraphale, we’re _sorry_ for the way we treated you -“

“YOU TRIED TO _FUCKING_ KILL ME!”

Shocked into silence by the outburst, the Archangels made no more attempts to coerce him. 

“And Crowley’s dead,” Aziraphale choked out in a near violent show of grief, his hands gripping at his chest as though it pained him. “You weren’t there, and now he’s gone. I’m going back to Earth and I want to be left alone.” Eyes tightening, he lowered his head and his voice softened just so. “We - all of us - were supposed to be family.”

Heaven seemed a little less bright that day. 

They watched as Aziraphale dismissed himself. When he was gone, none of them spoke. Instead, they silently deliberated on the strange aches and pangs that now afflicted the holy temples of their bodies, wondering what they could be. 

* * *

Somewhere between one-thousand and a hundred-billion light years away, Crowley opened his eyes. 

Well, this was new. Or was it? 

There were fields of stars stretching on for an eternity. They were _familiar._ Their energies reached out to him and warmed his body like the welcoming embrace of old friends, solar winds and flares tugged into being by his presence. Their power, that bright, impossible, beautiful power, surged through his fingers and toes and through his limbs, building into his core to fill a spacious void that had been there since the Fall.

He could use that power. He could manipulate it, just like before. Suddenly the entire Universe could bend to his whims and he felt the strength within him necessary to build and break atoms and explosive reactions, he felt the power of creation pulsing inside of him, a quasar of infinite possibilities. He could turn this galaxy inside out and then revert it back to normal, he could snuff out the stars and ignite them again, if he was so inclined. 

He could paint the sky with stars.

Looking down, the demon - was he even still a demon? - found his true self dressed in all white, definitely a suit that he wouldn’t have chosen himself, not in a million years. His skin glittered with the gold of billions of stars. A deep yearning arose in his decorated being, a longing for times long past when he _had_ known how to wield a sword as much as a cosmic paintbrush, when he had possessed the power to banish evil and create, create, create. Was he dreaming, or had his life on Earth all been a dream?

He looked down at his suit again, fingering the silken white tie with a scowl. 

He had been a Power, then. It was all coming back to him in a flurry. Once, he had been of the Second Sphere, part of a sect of mysterious, angelic lone wolves that travelled to the furthest reaches of the Universe. They were the Hands of God, and - ah, that was right, he had made friends with a particular group of Cherubim back in the day, and those ugly bastards had doomed him with their rebellious ideas. 

No. Not doomed. They had changed him, certainly. Though this was all very familiar, Crowley could not say for certain that he actually _liked_ it. Whoever he had been back then, that wasn’t him now. He really, really wouldn’t have picked that suit, for starters. 

Staring into the face of infinity, Crowley only really had one word floating about his mind, and that word was _eurgh._

What was he supposed to do to get back to Earth? Rev up like an engine? Go soaring through the great vacuum like a comet? Miracle his way back? No, no, Hell would never ignore a transportation miracle of that calibre. Floating about a bit, clueless, Crowley flapped his grand array of starlit wings and tried to find some kind of planet where he might be able to sit and think and possibly indulge in forty bottles of fine wine to help along any ideas.

The sound of ten-thousand out of tune trumpets suddenly assaulted his ear holes. Regretfully, the soundlessness of Space did not affect the ethereal. 

**A s t e r a o t h.**

It was like a sword plunging right through his chest all over again. Chilled to the metaphorical bone by the usage of his ancient name, Crowley scowled again and floated there with his arms tightly folded across his chest, watching as _she_ rose into being. 

Oscar. Definitely not her real name, though she seemed to have adopted it on Earth without complaint. He could actually look at her without suffering the sensation of his entire being ripping apart into tiny squiggly pieces, now, though he almost wished he’d had the excuse of being a demon upon seeing those thousands of giant eyeballs set into flaming wheels. It was an extravagant affair, and entirely unsettling. He definitely preferred her as a cat. 

“What the Hell do you want?” He greeted snidely. “So this is where you’ve been, is it? Actually really could have done with a hand down there on Earth when we were getting bludgeoned by demons. Ya know, protecting your boss’s new favourite kid. Protecting _you_ from Hell. All that infinite power and you decide to go sunbathing somewhere past Ursor Minor, eh?”

Those thousands of eyes all fixed upon him. He hated it, he really hated it. Fighting the temptation to fly up close and free kick one of them straight into the nearest black hole, he settled with glaring right back, instead. 

**I c g h u a t y u o r m m m m …. S o u l.**

Crowley squinted confusedly at the Throne and then shrugged. He could have sworn that thousands of eyes looked exasperated for a moment. One of those closest to him actually rolled and he wasn’t sure whether it was because of him or whether a particularly interesting asteroid had just gone whizzing past. 

**U g h.**

“You got my what? Am I dead? Is this Second Hell?”

**N o o o.**

Oscar’s enormous wings ruffled in blatant annoyance. That was followed by a sound in Crowley’s head that sounded like a hundred ducks being shoved into a giant blender.

**I … f o u n d … y o u r … s o u l.**

“Sooo,” Crowley responded, scratching his head. He was entirely lost. “I’m not dead, then? Despite getting shanked with a holy blade?”

**T h e F l a m i n g S w o r d i s a b a n e o f e v i l.**

Well, that made even less sense! Unless …

“Yeah, and what’s more evil than a demon?” Crowley questioned half-sincerely, and when those eyes did nothing but stare back at him in response, he sighed deeply. She knew that he already knew the answer, and now he had to actually _admit_ it to himself. “Right. _Fine_. I’m not evil. Are you happy, now? Can I go back to Earth?”

**T h e A l m i g h t y i s a m e r c i f u l L o r d -**

Crowley scoffed mightily at that. “Well, you’ve changed your tune! Weren’t you sent away from the First Sphere? Didn’t you come just a teensy bit close to losing your job? Or was this all part of some stupidly complicated plan to get us closer to the Second Coming? Is that right?”

Oscar’s eyes turned downwards for a moment. The burning wheels spinning around the vast sun of her body stuttered a moment, but persevered. 

**G o d l i s t e n e d t o m y d e s i r e t o s e e m o r e t h a n H e r b l e s s e d f e e t.**

Crowley had to swallow back the threat of sudden laughter, forcing his lips into a frown. 

**I w a n t e d … t o s e e. T o f e e l. L i k e m a n … L i k e y o u. I w a s l e f t o n E a r t h. W e a k. S m a l l. I h a t e d.**

Feeling a niggle of pity for the grand angel, Crowley decided to spare her his time a little longer. What kind of life was that? To have the very purpose of one’s existence to be in constant adoration, to be the seat of God in a vast, empty Universe, never experiencing true joy or sadness or laughter? He was reminded of his short time as Asteraoth, who may as well have been a distant ancestor for all the attachment he felt for his former self. He remembered that past the immense power, past the grandiose position he had held, he had been so, so _intensely_ alone. 

He’d thought lighting stars and creating masterpieces would alleviate that heartbreaking loneliness, but no, the void of Space could never be completely filled. He’d found traitors and eagerly accepted their friendship. Not much longer after that, he had Fallen.

The story he told was much cooler. 

**I l e a r n t … I c o u l d n o t d o u b t G o d. I s a w t h e l o v e b e t w e e n a n g e l a n d d e m o n. S h e w a s t h e r e. S h e h a d n o t l e f t. F o r y o u r s e r v i c e t o t h e H e a v e n l y H o s t, S h e o f f e r s y o u y o u r n a m e a n d d i v i n i t y.**

Crowley had to replay that particular cacophony of dreadful noises back in his mind before he really understood it.

His name? His divinity? 

He was being offered his angelhood back. No, he was being given a _choice_. 

To accept would make him the first demon to, what … Rise? How would it go? Would the Throne blink her eyeballs and miraculously remove every ounce of demonic taint from his body? Was it really that easy? Simplicity led to temptation, and Crowley _was_ tempted. He could have what many demons longed for: to have his powers restored, to have everything put back in perfect order so that his body, his halo was not fragmented. He could be a perfect being again. He could …

No.

Perfection was impossible. Thousands of years on Earth had taught him that. He knew too much, now. He loved too much to simply go back to doing … what? Creating stars on God’s whims over and over and over again? The more he thought of it, the more it sickened him to his very core. 

And the answer was as easy as that. 

“No, thanks.”

The Throne’s many eyes widened slightly. 

**N o?**

“That’s right. You know what I want? I wanna create my own path down on the world that’s my home. I want my own life where I don’t have to be terrified of Hell beating on my arse for submitting a report a day late. I wanna be able to sleep and drink and make the Earth just … _fun_. That’s who I am, now. I’m the cool demon that makes things interesting. The _coolest_. I don’t wanna work for a load of holier-than-thou utter _bastards_ that show up when they feel like it and not when they’re needed.” Crowley eyed Oscar, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe you get a pass. Could have helped us out a bit more on that last part though, couldn’t you? Now Aziraphale probably thinks he’s killed me off.”

Something deep within him ached at the thought. _Aziraphale._

His ethereal body may have been pulled however many light years away but the memories came flooding back in quick succession. There had been a hell of a lot of Hellfire, demons - _Marchosias_. That right evil arsehole had riled poor Aziraphale up and … yeah, that had really hurt, a holy blade right through the sternum, but it didn’t hurt quite as much as the thought of leaving his angelic companion to dwell on it all alone. 

“Send me back,” Crowley requested, desperation lacing his voice. “Please. Stuff got really messed up down there, and I’m not just gonna float around here looking pretty.”

Oscar read him a moment longer, then she drifted ominously forwards, her ship-sized wings folding in until the longest feathers brushed over the crimson sweep of Crowley’s hair. He felt an overwhelming flood of affection and, strangely, gratitude beating from the angel like a pulse. It felt something like a smile. 

**A n d s o i t s h a l l b e.**

**C r o w l e y.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is This is Gospel (piano version) by Panic! At the Disco.


	17. The Beginning

So there he was. On Earth. 

It had happened so quickly that it took Crowley a good moment to adjust to where he was. Gone were the infinite spools of galaxies, glittering and beautiful. He was _home._

Quickly looking down at himself, he flexed his hands and found with an absurd amount of joy that he was a demon again, dressed in his usual dark attire. He wasn’t sparkling. That was good. His shirt had the remnants of stardust on it, which he quickly brushed off - and then he realised that he had a body. A real, physical body! Muttering a thanks to Oscar under his breath, he turned his attention to his surroundings. 

A hospital room. It was darkened; night had fallen some time ago. Outside of the window, the rain had stopped and the sky was clear, opening up the blanket of cosmos above. 

Cadence and Emery stared back at him, mouths agape. 

She was in the bed, looking as though she had just gone two rounds with a grizzly bear. He was stood to the side holding a quiet bundle in his arms. 

Immediately intrigued, Crowley moved closer to get a better look at the teeny Second Coming there swathed in blankets, and he found that it looked, well, like a baby, much as the Antichrist had. Tiny, tiny little fingers were gripping the edge of the blanket, and snot bubble popped at its button nose. It made a gurgling sound, its face pinching slightly as if offended by something, but then it relaxed. _Smiled._

The parents made shocked little noises, staring at Crowley as if he had just come back from the dead, which he supposed in a way he had. In response, he just shrugged and then moved even closer, bending down slightly to greet the baby with a little wave. 

“Well, look at you,” he said to the infant, pushing his glasses up into his hair. “Hello.”

The baby gurgled again, then fell still as exhaustion took over. 

Crowley straightened and regarded the parents with a casual air that seemed to throw them off even more. They continued to stare at him, though Emery wordlessly held out the bundle in his arms in a silent invitation.

Now, Crowley would never admit it, but he was reluctantly touched by the offer. They knew what he was, they knew what the baby was, and yet they trusted him enough to actually come into contact with the wee creature. He wasn’t entirely sure that he trusted himself with something like that. Regardless, the demon carefully reached out and took the baby into his own arms, feeling how light and tiny and delicate it really was in its swaddle. 

There was no horrible reaction, there was no bending of reality as he held the holy child. With a small smile, he gently rocked it, much as he had rocked Adam into sleep back in the day. As he did, a calming tide of peace washed over him and filled his heart with warm and gentle waves of affection. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, exactly, but it felt good to finally be in a state of tranquility after years and years of hardships.

“Name?” He asked, looking up.

“Um, we didn’t want to go with anything too obvious,” Cadence rasped. She was obviously exhausted, but she offered him a genuine smile. “Rebecca.”

As Crowley beheld the soft skin and rounded cheeks of Rebecca, a thought occurred. 

“Has Aziraphale met her, yet?”

The couple glanced at each other unsurely. 

“He left for Heaven with Hope yesterday. We haven’t seen him since then. Uh …” Emery cleared his throat, looking worried. “I think he thinks you’re, erm … no longer with us?”

Chest tightening, Crowley offered Rebecca back to her father and withheld his concern, instead just nodding once and taking a few steps back away from the bed. 

“Righty ho. Must dash. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Wait -“ Emery managed, wide-eyed. “Thank you, uh … We never did get your name -“

“Crowley.”

“Crowley,” he repeated, and he smiled. “Thank you. Uh, would you know anything about raising, well … the last thing I want to do is fail the entire world by getting it wrong.”

Hanging back, the demon looked at the small family. A small, knowing kind of smirk occupied his countenance, for they reminded him of another family he had briefly met not so long ago. Fortunately for them, he was no longer quite as oblivious as to the trick to raising a supernatural child. 

“Just be human,” he said confidently. “Raise them human. Nobody is purely good and nobody is purely bad. The best person I know is really a bit of a bastard, and he’s the best one we’ve got. Just let the kid be a kid. How’s that? Besides, me and Aziraphale are kind of staples of the Earth, now. If you need us, we’ll be around.”

And that was that. Taking Aziraphale’s coat off the hook and picking up his keys from the table, the demon departed the hospital and then the island entirely, leaving behind a place that felt just a little bit less cursed. Tomorrow, the sun would come out to shine. He made sure of it. 

Once he had left, he drove like the demon he was. 

The Bentley had never seen such speed in its life. In fact, it wasn’t truly capable of what it was achieving but there was a little demonic magic in its wheels that burnt flaming tracks into the roads, all born of a sincere urgency. He followed all signs heading east and then to London, speeding out of the countryside and into the realm of skyscrapers and urbanisation with some relief. 

He could feel Aziraphale. It wasn’t a dwindling little flame of something that persisted whenever the angel was in Heaven. No, he had definitely returned, and Crowley could feel that bright and beautiful flame that was his presence burning somewhere within the city they called home. The ability to track him down with ease had come in very useful over the years when saving Aziraphale from painful discorporation, and now the need to find him was egging him on now more than ever. 

His throat was tight as the Bentley turned in to Soho. Beside him, in the passenger seat, a potted lily plant had appeared and it fluttered in the cool night air when he eventually parked and took it out with him, holding it carefully in the crook of his arm and flinging Aziraphale’s coat over his shoulder. 

Staring up at the bookshop, Crowley paused to breathe in the London air. It was polluted. It smelled of freshly fallen rain, which was flooding the blocked drains at the side of the road. It was home. He was finally back, Earth’s one demon with hope and love lighting the once bitter confines of his heart. 

The bookshop seemed empty and uninhabited, but Crowley knew better. Walking up to the door, he felt layers and layers of invisible wards protecting the establishment from evil and foul intentions, though the powerful magic only met him with welcoming, parting aside just long enough for him to enter before falling back together. 

It was alarming, really, being back there. It felt as though he had been gone for years after everything that had happened. He had sped into Heaven and somehow survived. He had taken a holy sword to the chest and really wormed his way out of that one. And he and Aziraphale … they had taken the Arrangement and told it to go fuck itself, well and truly. There was no Arrangement of necessity, now. There was _only_ necessity. They thrived together, they made each other better. And now, maybe, they could have a whole future to look forward to, hand in hand. 

The light beyond the stairs switched on, illuminating the darkness of the bookshop. The demon straightened and subconsciously tried to neaten his mess of hair as a figure appeared within the soft, warm light. 

“Crowley?”

Before Crowley could answer, Aziraphale stumbled noisily down the stairs and landed so heavily that he tripped over his own foot and fell onto his hands and knees, dropping a half empty wine bottle as he went. As the wine glugged out into the old floorboards, the angel looked up at Crowley, back to the wine bottle, and then up at Crowley again, his arms shaking with effort.

Alarmed, the demon quickly put the plant on the desk and hung up the precious coat on the hooks by the door. He knelt down by his companion and pushed him back into a seated position, holding onto his shoulders just in case he decided to curl up on the floor, instead, which judging by his expression was exactly what he wanted to do. 

“You’re bloody sloshed,” Crowley observed, trying not to sound overly amused. He picked up the wine bottle and righted it, glancing briefly at the label. “Ah, you went for the good stuff. Weren’t you saving this for a special occasion?” 

Aziraphale made a strained sound and reached up to clumsily feel Crowley’s face, removing the sunglasses as he went. Something about seeing those familiar eyes seemed to help him realise that it was the real deal, that the demon actually was by some miracle there in front of him, that he hadn’t accidentally killed him after all. 

“I thought …” he rasped, red-rimmed eyes threatening with tears. “I really thought I’d …”

Crowley quickly shook his head and held Aziraphale’s hand to his cheek, brushing eagerly against the warm palm.

“Nope. Don’t worry. Turned out you were right. I was just about nice enough. Think I was an angel again for about ten minutes before I changed my mind.” At the other’s stunned expression, he continued, “Never mind that. Think about this, angel: everything’s fine. I’m back. I asked to be left alone, and I think someone actually listened.”

“So did I,” said Aziraphale groggily, his brow creasing as he no doubt tried to figure out whether everything had been a dream. It certainly felt that way. “The Archangels …” He then scowled at an unpleasant memory. After a violent hiccough, he focused for a moment, and the wine bottle magically refilled as he sobered up. “I’m fairly certain that I’ve scared them off.”

“Probably not as cool as when I did the Hellfire trick with Gabriel.”

The angel released a small breath of laughter, staring at Crowley as if he might disappear if he looked away. With shining eyes, he reached forth and gingerly brought them together, fingers settling on the back of the demon’s head and causing him to shudder when fingers scratched pleasantly through his hair.

“I should have known you’d get out of extinction somehow,” Aziraphale murmured into his ear. “Wily old thing.”

There was a certain thrill at the prospect of what they had, now. They were reunited, and it seemed that they had both bought themselves more time to enjoy their existence on Earth without interruption. The world was changing, _they_ were changing, but change was not something to be feared; attempts were being made to make the planet a better place to live, and there would be an angel and a demon there to keep a good, close eye on mankind as they brought about the future. 

And they would do it together. Like always. 

On an island somewhere in the English Channel, a mother and a father beheld their new child with the purest love in their hearts. They were frightened, even daunted, but never hopeless. If God Herself had chosen them to raise a destined leader, then they must have done something right, after all. And as their happiness moved in to exist peacefully with their grief, the clouds that haunted the island finally drifted away as morning broke on the horizon. 

While this all occurred, and while Heaven and Hell retreated in on themselves to repair the deep, near devastating cracks that had formed gradually over time, an angel and a demon took to the stars for a well deserved voyage into the tranquility of Space simply to enjoy each other’s company for a while. Their ethereal bodies travelled together faster than the speed of light, twisting and colliding freely where they could do no harm and break apart clouds of dust in the Interstellar Medium between stars. 

But they could never leave Earth behind for long. 

They _were_ Godparents, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is Gravity by Embrace.


	18. Epilogue

“So, what the Hell do we do now?”

“Must you intersperse Hell with everything, Crowley? We’ve only just shaken them off.”

“Fine. Heck. Whatever.”

It was Central London. They had miracled their way into a swanky members club somewhere near Piccadilly, simply because they could. Aziraphale was enjoying a meticulously made peach crumble while Crowley nursed a double of Glenfiddich. A girl group was singing and dancing on a small stage nearby, brightening the heady atmosphere with their smiles. Crowley was convinced that the guy in the scarf and hat on the next table over was Leonardo DiCaprio, but Aziraphale wasn’t having any of it. 

“I suppose we just _do_ what feels right. That seems to have served us well so far, hasn’t it? Are you sure you don’t want to try any of this? It’s to die for, Crowley! Oh -“ 

Crowley raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval. Aghast, Aziraphale hastily averted his gaze and stared at his dessert as if it had been the one to say something tactless. 

“Oh, dear. I didn’t -“

“Oi, I’m messing. I know that in ever dramatic fashion you keep telling yourself that I almost kicked the bucket, but you came closer to that than I did. Don’t let it ruin your dessert.” Frowning, he intensely watched his companion resume eating. “You know I have no idea what feels right, don’t you? I’m wicked. You do that and I’ll just tag along.”

“Oh no, dear. You’re better with children than I am. You _were_ the Nanny.”

Crowley’s raise of his eyebrows was genuine, that time.

“Right, and what’re you gonna be doing? Their garden was about a solid square foot.”

Aziraphale dabbed primly at his lips and sat back, smiling.

“I think I’ll just be an angel, this time.”

“Oh, good. That’ll make me the fun one.”

The angel tutted, though with a reluctant degree of fondness.

“If your idea of fun is whispering absolute horrors into the ears of infants, I suppose.”

“Yeah, can’t wait,” Crowley teased, nudging Aziraphale’s leg with his foot. “All right. Well. Here we go again. To the world, angel. And whatever nonsense this restructure is gonna bring.” He raised his tumbler and clinked it against his partner’s when he followed suit.

Aziraphale smiled, somewhat nervously this time. 

“To the world and all its nonsense.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of the day is He’s a Rebel by Alana Da Fonseca.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments on this fic! You really helped keep it going! This is without a doubt the longest thing I’ve written and I have cause to be proud of myself for managing to finish it. Extra special thanks to the regulars who have left me kind words with near enough every chapter! 
> 
> I have mixed feelings towards this story but it’s been fun. Wherever you are, have a wonderful day.


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